Unending Song
by A. A. Silver-Staff
Summary: Anna Watson wasn't expecting much out of her life. Honorably discharged, saved a life - it was all meaningless. Alone in London, Anna is simply ghosting through her own life, unnoticed by even herself. When she meets Sherlock, everything in her life changes, and though it's not always easy, Anna can't help but feel like it's probably going to be the greatest thing she's ever done.
1. Therapy and Riding Crops

_Sometimes you meet someone, and it's so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you're in love or you're partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don't know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something._

_ - Unknown_

* * *

><p>The day everything changed began much like any other. I was woken from a nightmare early in the morning. Images of men being pulled in on stretchers, shaking hands trying to hold entrails in the gaping hole of a stomach. I heard voices shouting my name, others screaming for help. I stood in the middle of it all, feeling pulled in every direction until I woke up.<p>

I went about my morning as usual, grabbing my walking cane that leaned against my bedside table and getting a cup of coffee and an apple, my usual breakfast after the more realistic nightmares that made me feel too sick to be hungry.

They usually put me off food in general, but I knew that it would be bad for me to not eat. I sat down at my small desk with my tiny breakfast and reached into the top left drawer, pulling out my purple laptop. Below it lay my gun. It was the only thing I kept in my flat that tied me to the war. To be honest, there wasn't anything truly personal in my flat at all.

I opened my laptop and logged onto my online blog. I stared at the top. Signed in as Anna H. Watson. I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Nothing came to mind. Nothing at all. That was the usual. My therapist thought it would be good for me to write a blog detailing what was bothering me. Like writing about it would make me feel better. So far, I had many things that bothered me. But none that I could write about. It all felt too personal, like whoever reading it would judge me on how I felt. I really didn't need that.

That afternoon, I went to Dr. Reinhardt's office for our scheduled meeting.

"How's your blog going?" She asks.

I drum my fingers on the armrest of the stiff leather chair I sat in. "Good." I said firmly with a tight smile while nodding my head. "Good."

Being a therapist, I assumed Dr. Reinhardt saw right through that. I was correct. "You haven't written a word, have you?" She asked, the slightest hint of amusement leaking into her voice.

My eyes were drawn to the pad of paper she kept in her lap as she scribbled something down. I frowned. "You just wrote "still had trust issues"." I looked back at her accusingly as she glanced at her notes.

"And you read my writing upside down," she retorted calmly. She raised an eyebrow. "You see what I mean?"

I pursed my lips and looked out the window, deciding not to answer that question. Dr. Reinhardt, and therapists in general, didn't sit well with me. If I wanted to talk to someone about something, then I would. But, seeing as I didn't know many people, a therapist seemed as good a place as any.

'Wow,' I thought, shocking myself. 'I'm lonely enough to go to a therapist just for someone to talk to. Fantastic'.

"Anna." I looked back at Dr. Reinhardt She must've been saying my name for some time, because the look her dark brown eyes sent my way was one of veiled concern. I sent her a believable smile.

"Anna, you're a soldier. It's going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

I hated that bit. The part where I knew she was right but I just hated to admit it. I shut my eyes and sighed, giving in and telling myself I'd write before I went to bed that night. There was just one problem with that. I had nothing to write about. My days consisted of reading, taking an occasional walk in the park, visiting the market, and going back to my small flat. Occasionally I'd go to therapy. Other than that, I was leading a very dull, very boring life.

"Nothing happens to me." I said tiredly. Yes. Nothing happens to Anna Watson.

Of course, I did say this was the day that something changed for me. And that thing began in the park.

I frequently visited the small park close to Dr. Reinhardt's office to relax and watch other people have fun. It didn't make me any happier, but I firmly believed that with my limp, I couldn't have much fun anymore. I couldn't ride a bike, couldn't swim. I couldn't go on my runs, and I couldn't go on relaxing walks before my leg began to bother me too much.

I was taking a walk through the park when it started. I was going to visit the coffee house across the street but decided to go through the park to get there that day. It was longer, but it was nice out and I wasn't feeling as depressed as I usually was. As I was walking, I heard someone call my name. "Anna! Anna Watson!"

I turned towards the voice to see a short, fairly large man jogging after me. He held a newspaper and a briefcase in his hand. He looked vaguely familiar. "Stamford, Mike Stamford," He said with a grin. "We were at Barts together!"

I blinked. Mike Stamford? Oh, yeah. He wore glasses, his hairline was receding, and he was quite a bit bigger than I remembered, but that was him. I smiled and shook his hand. "Yes, sorry. Hello, Mike."

"Yeah, I know, I got fat," He joked, and I smile again, even though it feels inappropriate. Mike was always good at keeping conversations light. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

I feel that twitch in my hand start up again and I balled it up in a fist. Right. I forgot Mike had been a bit dense as well. "I got shot." I said simply with a shrug.

Mike walked with me over to the coffeehouse and then asked me to join him in the park once more. I decided to, mainly out of boredom. It was nice to see Mike, of course, but he seemed eager to talk about Afghanistan. I, however, was not.

"Are you still at Barts, then?" I asked Mike to fill in the silence that had come after he asked me if I was seeing anyone.

"Teaching now, yeah," Mike said with a grin. "Bright young things that we used to be. God, I hate them." I chuckled. I remembered my days back in school. I'd been quite the troublemaker. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension much longer. I can't let Jamie send anymore checks." I shook my head and took a sip from my coffee.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else." I thought about how correct that is. It was easier being there after I realized that I couldn't let one event shape my whole life. It was good for me to be in London. I couldn't bear to leave it after making such progress. I was even getting comfortable walking around at night. "That's not the Anna Watson I know."

"I'm not really the Anna Watson you used to know," I joked dryly, shifting my coffee cup out of my left hand when I felt it shaking.

"Couldn't Jamie help?" Mike asked.

I scoffed. "No, I couldn't do that. Divorces are expensive, you know? Got enough going on without me asking for more money." I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "I don't think I can afford my flat much longer."

"I don't know," Mike shrugged, stretching back on the bench. "Get a flatshare. That might work."

I laughed. "Come on, Mike. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Mike chuckled, as though something is terribly funny about what I'd said. I looked at him over my coffee cup curiously as I took a drink. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," He said humorously.

"Who was the first?" I asked curiously.

* * *

><p>I glanced around the hospital curiously as Mike led me down to the morgue. When he'd said it was a friend of his, I'd understood. But this friend was beginning to sound quite odd. They didn't work at the hospital, but spent a lot of time down in the morgue. Mike led me into the morgue's lab and held the door for me. I nodded in thanks and limped into the room.<p>

A man stood behind the counter covered in beakers, fluids, and glass containers. He had dark, curly hair and sharp cheekbones. He had a short mouth but his lips were full. He was quite beautiful. He sent Mike and I a glance before returning to whatever he was working on. "Bit different from when I went here," I said to Mike.

"You've no idea," Mike agreed.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" I turned towards the man. "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.

"I prefer to text." I raised my eyebrows. The man sure seemed detached.

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike said. "Left it up at reception."

"Oh, here," I said, fishing into my pocket and grabbing my phone. "Use mine." I may as well be polite, right?

"Oh." He glanced away from me for a moment, as though this was actually surprising to him. "Thank you." He got up and came towards me. He buttoned up his black jacket on the way. He was smartly dressed.

"This is an old friend of mine, Anna Watson." said Mike. The man gave no kind of greeting. I pursed my lips and passed him my phone.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I froze. Mike sent me a thin smile and nodded. I frowned and looked at the tall, dark-haired man beside me. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He reiterated.

I pursed my lips into a line and glanced at my shoes before looking at him. "Afghanistan. How did you know?" I never finished that sentence before he interrupted me. The door opened and I turned to see a young woman about my age come in. She was pretty, though she immediately got flustered when she said the man beside me. She obviously had a crush on him, judging from the way she bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Ah, Molly... coffee, thank you." I think he was saying thank you to the both of us as he passed my phone back to me. "What happened to the lipstick?" I glanced over curiously to see the girl named Molly sputter for a moment.

"It wasn't working for me," she said, attempting to be flippant.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." The man began to walk away. "Your mouth's too small now."

I made a sound of indignation. "That's a bit rude," I muttered to the Molly woman. She shrugged with a smile, as though she expected it. She walked back out of the lab.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the man asked.

I glanced at Mike again. Who was this guy? "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," the man explained. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked at me then, his face expectant.

I looked at Mike. "You told him about me?" How had he done that? He said he'd left his phone in his coat. That was up in reception. I hadn't seen him get it out on the cab ride here.

"Not a word," Mike said quite honestly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" I asked as I looked back at the tall man. God, he was tall. At least six foot. Maybe over?

"I did." He grabbed a long, dark coat off a chair and began to put it. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He sent me a look that made it seem like that should have been obvious.

"How did you know about Afghanistan, then?" I asked.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," said the man, completely ignoring my question. "Together we ought to able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He slipped a scarf over his head and knotted it. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked around me and headed for the door.

I blinked. Riding crop? What the hell? "Is that it?" I asked, turning to look at him, trying my best to keep my face blank.

"Is that what?" asked the tall man, removing his hand from the door.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

The tall man glanced at Mike quickly before returning his gaze to me. "Problem?"

I chuckled. Right. Problem. Yes, bit of a problem. "We don't know anything about each other, for starters. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

The tall man glanced over me from head to toe, as though trying to take in every aspect of me. Finally, he opened his mouth and said, "I know you're an army medic and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid." I glanced down at my leg and shuffled awkwardly. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He passed me back my phone.

How did he know all that? While he had been wrong about one thing, the rest of it was spot on. And Mike said he's never mentioned me before. This was my first time meeting him. I felt my cheeks begin to color with anger, though I once again kept my face blank. Years of practice with drill sergeants trying to make you flinch or show emotion on your face. The tall man began to leave again. Before he completely left, however, he stuck his head back inside the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He made some sort of weird clicking noise with his tongue as he winked. "Afternoon!"

I blinked as the door shut. I looked at Mike who answered my silent question. "Yeah. He's always like that."

* * *

><p><em><span>Sherlock<span>_

I hear the door open and turn my head. It's Mike and some woman I've never seen before. My eyes immediately rove over her body once, twice, and then I turn away.

Tanned face and neck, as well as hands. No tan on her forearms or chest. Been to war. Afghanistan or Iraq? Hasn't eaten well in a long time. Dark circles under the eyes, suggesting insomnia or, more likely, war nightmares. Has a limp and walks with a cane. Again, mostly likely the cause of war. Her hair is long and pulled up into a ponytail. Probably not a style preference, suggested by the way she continues to tuck too-short pieces behind her ears with an annoyed face. Not enough money for a haircut. The hair is colored like sunlight, though not artificially. Natural highlights of lighter blond peek out. It's wavy and curled at the tips. Obviously comfortable with her body, judging by the confidence in her stance. Her clothes are plain yet feminine. Dark red shirt, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Unbuttoned slightly to reveal a white camisole beneath that doesn't show any cleavage. Not in search of attention. Dark wash jeans with a few runs in them. Not placed there for style, but rather from wear and tear. Scuffed black boots that go up to her knees. They've attempted to be cleaned recently. Probably one of her more favorite articles of clothing. One of the more expensive ones, too, no doubt. Her irises are large, with thick, long eyelashes. Chocolate brown eyes. Full lips. Delicate nose turned up slightly at the tip. White, even teeth. Good dental hygiene. Her eyes take in the room first, scanning over everything. Medical career. Doctor? Army medic, then.

My mind falters for a moment as her eyes look at me now. Turned in my direction, locked on mine. She catches me looking. Her eyes stare straight into mine, boring into me. They zero in on me, and I can't help but have a very strong sense of deja vu. She's familiar, but only vaguely so. I already know her from somewhere. Where, though? Have I deleted it? I must have. She can't have been a terribly important person for me to have deleted it. But something is poking at the back of my mind still. Who is she? I know her from somewhere. Where? Where? I look away.

I stop. I only have moments to form a sentence before they think I am ignoring their presence. I open my mouth and say the only thing that seems reasonable at the time.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

He's saying he doesn't have it. Drat. I suppose I could just ask Molly, or... Wait a moment. She just spoke. The woman. "Oh, here. Use mine."

Generous as well. Kind. She's smiling at me, but in a way that is not forced. She seems to generally enjoy meeting people. How odd. I offer a thanks and take the phone. As I send the text, I take in the phone and all that is on it. Not originally hers. Scratches. Given by a drunk. Engraving for a boy. Sentimental gift? More than likely.

She seems shocked by me, something I fully expected. At the same time though, she seems slightly curious. The entire time we talk, I see her almost physically attempt to keep up with what I'm saying, which is odd given that most people give up after minutes.


	2. Suicides for Christmas

Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.  
>― <span>Lao Tzu<span>

* * *

><p><em><span>Anna<span>_

I sat down on my bed and dug into my pocket to retrieve my phone. I opened it and scrolled down to sent messages. I opened the most recent one and read, 'If brother has green ladders arrest brother. SH'.

I looked over at my laptop on the desk and decided that since Sherlock knew so much about me, I might as well try and look for him.

I spent the majority of the night searching through anything I could find on him across the internet.

* * *

><p>The next day dragged on and on until finally seven o'clock arrived. I decided to walk there, just to save some extra money. It was a nice night anyway, but my limp was bothering me a bit by the time I finally got there.<p>

I walked up to the door and hit the knocker against the door three times to try and get someone's attention. "Hello." I blinked and turned around to see Sherlock paying a cabbie. He was dressed in the same scarf and jacket he'd been in yesterday. Must've been his favorites.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." I smiled as he drew nearer.

"Sherlock, please," he said firmly, shaking my hand as he passed to the door.

"This is a good spot," I noted as I glanced around at the conveniently placed coffee shops, food booths, and clothing stores.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He never looked at me as he spoke, merely looked past me at the people and the shops.

"Help out in what way?" I asked.

Sherlock looked at me curiously, as though I was some interesting experiment. His eyes once again traveled the length of my body once before meeting my eyes again. That action, when performed by a man, usually meant he was attracted to you. It somehow felt different when Sherlock did it. The only heat in his eyes was one of curiosity.

"I ensured it," Sherlock said with an almost smile. The door to 221B opened at that moment and a short woman in a purple outfit opened the door. She had a kind face and short red-blonde hair. She must've been in her fifties or so. She gave off a very maternal air that naturally drew you in.

"Sherlock!" She greeted warmly, bringing him in for a hug. He returned it, and it looked like one of the few times he seemed genuinely comfortable. Sherlock stepped back and gestured to me with his hand.

"Mrs. Hudson, Anna Watson," He introduced me.

"Hello! Come in!" Mrs. Hudson said, ushering me in the door.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, almost rhetorically. I rolled my eyes. Of course we would. We were already there.

Sherlock went up the stairs first and I limped behind him, going much slower. Sherlock waited patiently in front of the door on the first landing, but I could see in his eyes that he was eyeing my leg critically. I sent him an annoyed look right back. When I reached him, he sent me a tight smile and swung the door open.

It was rather cozy inside. There was a black leather chair sitting in front of a full bookshelf. A tall window with tan drapes was on the far wall that let in a large amount of sunlight, another just like it to the right. Boxes and baskets of objects were around the whole area.

"Well, this place is very nice," I said, though the tidy monster inside of me was having a fit at the mess of cluttered boxes.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

I raised my eyebrow. "What if I'd said no?"

"You weren't going to say no," Sherlock snorted, as though he was quite certain of this.

I frowned. "I could have said no."

"Yes, you could have," Sherlock agreed. "But I knew you wouldn't."

He began to straighten a few things up a bit, stacking some papers into a pile on the mantle before stabbing a knife into them to keep them in place. I jumped a bit. Effective. I glanced just to the left of that and blinked. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said quickly. "When I say friend..." He trailed off and walked back towards the door. I followed to see Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.

"What do you think, then, Ms. Watson?" She asked, her eyes bright. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'd be needing two bedrooms." Sherlock began to remove his coat and scarf, completely at ease. I glanced between him and Mrs. Hudson.

"Um, you can just call me Anna," I said with a frown. "Of course we'll be needing two."

"Oh, it's alright, dear," Mrs. Hudson said quickly. "I'm not the judging sort. I know all about you young people getting adventurous and moving in together before you're married."

Mrs. Hudson moved into the kitchen as I stood there, face blank. She thought we were together. She thought Sherlock and I were together. I looked over at Sherlock, but he didn't seem to care one bit. "Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice exclaimed from the kitchen. "The mess you've made!" Her voice sounded more motherly than scolding. Sherlock merely glanced up at his name, displaying no interest once he deemed her words unimportant and returning to sorting through boxes.

I put a small pillow with Union Jack sewn on into a chair and sat down, rubbing my leg just above my knee. The pressure had built up a great deal since morning. Sherlock continued to unpack boxes of books, my eyes following him all across the room. When he opened his laptop, I felt the need to say something. "I looked you up on the Internet last night." I almost winced. That's a great way to start a conversation. Make him think you're a stalker.

Sherlock turned to look at me, not saying anything for a few moments. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The Science of Deduction."

He had a brief, rather proud smile. "What did you think?"

I pursed my lips and smiled, squinting my eyes a bit. "It seemed almost unreal. Can you really identify a software designer by his tie? Or an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes." Sherlock said confidently, his proud smile growing slightly larger. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

I was honestly curious. "How?" I asked, staring straight at him, trying to find some way of knowing if he was telling the truth. But, looking at Sherlock, he gave nothing away. Nothing except for a crooked smile before he turned away.

"What about these suicides, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming into the room holding the daily paper. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." As she spoke, Sherlock looked to the far right window and down at the street.

"Four," he said simply. Mrs. Hudson and I glanced at each other before looking back at Sherlock. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

Just as he said this, a man came up the stairs into the apartment. He had greying hair, though he was handsome. He didn't even get a chance to speak. "Where?" Sherlock asked, eyes squinted.

"Brixton, Laurestine Gardens," said the man. I glanced at the paper Mrs. Hudson held. Oh. Detective Inspector Lestrade. I glanced back over at the two. What would he want with Sherlock?

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock asked, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah."

"This one did." Sherlock's face took on a look of detachment. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, his face wary.

"Anderson," Lestrade answered, sending Sherlock an understanding look when he winced in frustration.

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock muttered.

"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade said in an attempt to appease Sherlock.

"I _need_ an assistant." Sherlock said firmly as he returned his gaze to the Detective Inspector.

"Will you come?" Lestrade asked once more.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." Lestrade nodded to Sherlock and then to Mrs. Hudson and I before he left. I looked back at Sherlock curiously. What was he? Obviously someone involved with the police somehow. Someone the police trusted, at least. I was broken out of my pondering by Sherlock suddenly smiling and jumping through the air, completely giddy.

"Brilliant!" He exclaimed. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" He spun around the room, grabbing his coat and scarf as he went along. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." He moved past her and into the kitchen, shrugging on his coat as he went.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she reminded him.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock said, brushing her comment off as if he hadn't heard it. "Anna, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home." He grabbed a pair of gloves off the table and left the the kitchen door. "Don't wait up!" The door slammed shut behind him.

"Look at him dashing about," Mrs. Hudson commented fondly. "My husband was just the same." Mrs. Hudson, though kind and only trying to engage me in conversation, upset me as I remembered how active I had once been. 'I was, too,' I thought sourly, glaring at my leg. "You're more the sitting down type, I can tell." I shut my eyes tightly, trying my hardest not to snap at the nice old lady. It wasn't her fault I had a bad leg. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg," she said kindly before heading into the kitchen.

"Damn my leg!" I shrieked, not able to hold it in any longer. I heard Mrs. Hudson give a frightened squeak and I winced. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said quickly, pressing my fingers to my eyes and rubbing them. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just... It's just sometimes this stupid leg, and I just..." I trailed off, not able to say anymore.

"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Hudson sympathetically. "I've got a hip." I smiled a little.

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," I said, attempting to rectify the situation.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got any."

"_Not_ your housekeeper!" She, too, left to go down to her rooms in the first floor.

I looked over the newspaper, trying to find something, anything to distract me. I saw the article about the newest suicide victim and began to skim over it when I noticed the front door open again. "You're a nurse." I looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, fitting some gloves onto his hands. "In fact, you're an army medic."

I stood up and shuffled my feet a bit "Yes." I looked at him expectantly.

"Any good?" He asked me, glancing from my leg to my face.

"Very good," I answered, seeing where the conversation was going.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, his eyes never once leaving mine.

"Oh God, yes." I agreed fervently.

On the cab ride over, I asked Sherlock again how he knew about me being in Afghanistan. This started a very long, lengthy explanation.

"The way you held yourself said military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so army nurse, obvious. You face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury to your leg were traumatic, wound in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

There was silence in the cabbie for a moment as I processed this. It was almost unbelievable for it to be possible. I felt my lips twisting into a smile of their own accord. I couldn't stop it. "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a limp." He said an almost annoyed voice. I nodded, giving him that one. "Then there's your brother."

"What about it?" I asked.

"Your phone." I drew out my cell phone and passed it into his waiting hand. Once more, Sherlock went into a very long rant. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this; it's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pockets as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

"The engraving?" I supplied, hoping that I was giving him what he asked for. I had my doubts - he probably wanted me to pick up on some minute detail involving a corner of the screen.

"Jamie Watson - clearly a family member who's given you her old phone. Not your mother, this is a young lady's gadget. Could be cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so sister it is. Now ... who's Carter? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says husband not boyfriend. He must have given it to her recently. This model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months on, she's just given it away. If he'd left her, she would have kept it. People do, sentiment. No, she wanted rid of it. She left him. She gave the phone to you. That says she wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your sister for help. That says you've got problems with her. Maybe you liked her husband, maybe you don't like her drinking."

"How could you know about the drinking?" I asked after shutting my mouth. It was getting freaky. That was a lot to go on based on the condition of a cell phone. "What about the phone says anything about drinking?"

Sherlock gave another of his tight, fake smiles, the smiles that were almost creepy, like a doll's painted face. He wasn't smiling because he was happy. I felt like he was smiling because he thought it was the societal convention to smile on occasion. That made me wonder just how detached he really was from the world. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though.

"Power connection, tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge, but her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober woman's phone, never see a drunk's without." He passed my phone back to me and folded his hands in his lap neatly, gazing out the window, as though he was suddenly quite bored with me. On closer inspection, I saw that his hands were clasped tightly, as though he was preparing for something to happen.

I looked down at my phone in wonderment. If he could tell all that just by looking at some tan lines and a cellphone, what could he tell by my haircut, or the color of my nail polish? Maybe he followed the same guidelines I did when deciding how a girl was feeling based on the color and condition of her nails.

"That... was amazing," I said seriously, putting my phone back in my pocket and looking at the street ahead. I noticed Sherlock turn his head towards me out of the corner of my eye before looking at me directly.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, of course," I nodded. "It was extraordinary. Completely amazing. Never seen anything like it in my life."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock said, looking away again, eyes guarded.

I snorted. Of course not. Most people didn't take kindly to have personal facts about them and their family laid out as though it was obvious to see. "What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

I snickered as he said this and smiled when he glanced at me, almost hesitant amusement flickering across his face before turning his head to look out the window. I saw the corner of his cheek lifted though, telling me he was smiling. The rest of the car ride was silent, though not uncomfortably so.

* * *

><p>It was dark by the time we got to the crime scene. Sherlock got out first and shut the door after I'd stepped out. Up ahead, I kept see a tall building taped off with squad cars parked around it, their lights on to tell people to keep back.<p>

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as he adjusted the leather gloves on his hands.

I thought about everything he'd said between then and the first time I'd met him and nodded. "Jamie and me get along great, always have. Yes, I hate the drinking. That's a problem. Carter and Jamie split up three months ago. They're getting a divorce right now. And yes, I did like Carter. He was sweet. Jamie is a drinker."

"Spot on then," Sherlock said, almost smugly. "I didn't expect to be right about everything." He had an odd skip in his step, making him appear almost jaunty.

I smirked up at him. "Jamie is short for James."

He stopped walking suddenly and I turned to look at him. His face was very distant. "Jamie's your brother."

"What am I doing here, anyway?" I asked, beginning to walk again, ignoring his statement.

"Brother!" Sherlock hissed, ignoring my question. "There's always something..."

Realizing he wasn't going to answer my question, I limped along behind him as he approached the police tape. A woman with very tight curls stood within the tape, flicking through her phone. She glanced up when she saw us approaching and her face immediately darkened.

She then put on a sneering smile. "Hello, freak!"

I blinked, glancing between her and Sherlock. She'd obviously meant him. Sherlock seemed utterly unphased by this, simply giving her that not-real, tight smile. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said quickly, stopping at the police tape.

"Why?" The woman asked.

Sherlock turned his gaze upon her. "I was invited," he said surely, his eyes boring straight into her. She didn't even blink.

"Why?" She asked again, this time with more of an edge to her voice. I glanced between the two nervously. There was obviously a lot of tension. If eyes could shoot fire, I was sure they'd both be incinerated by that point.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock said, almost sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" The woman asked. It was obviously rhetorical. I knew exactly what she was thinking, even after just meeting her. Her disdain for Sherlock was obvious.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock said as he lifted the tape up and ducked underneath it. He sniffed the air and glanced at her. "Even know you didn't make it home last night." Sherlock raised the tape high for me so I wouldn't have to duck down and shimmy awkwardly with my limp. The woman, Sally, stopped me almost immediately, though.

"Who's this?"

"Colleague of mine - Anna Watson." I smiled at her, hoping to thaw some of the frostiness in her eyes. No luck. "Anna Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." The way he said friend made it quite clear he was calling her that for formality's sake, nothing more.

Sergeant Donovan gave a humorless laugh and looked back at Sherlock. "A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Sherlock shifted around. He was getting tired of talking with Sergeant Donovan. "What, did he follow you home?"

Tired of Sergeant Donovan's rude behavior, I smiled brightly and replied, "Actually, I followed him home!" It wasn't technically a lie - technically, Sherlock had already moved in by the time I'd gotten to 221B. So technically, it was his home first.

Sergeant Donovan looked at me like I'd grown two heads. I saw Sherlock's lips twist into an amused smile before it was gone and he lifted the tape for me again. Sergeant Donovan didn't stop him this time. I stepped under the tape and Sherlock let it snap down behind me as Sergeant Donovan sent us a sour look, grabbing her walkie talkie out of her coat pocket. "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

Sherlock began to look all over the place, taking in the building, the surrounding area, and even the sidewalk. As he did so, I saw a snobbish looking man come out of the house. When he saw Sherlock he immediately sneered. Hm. He sure wasn't popular around here.

"Ah, Anderson!" Sherlock greeted with false warmth. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," Anderson said in a snobbish voice. Hm. Matched his face. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear." Sherlock continued to stare at Anderson for another few long moments. "And is your wife away for long?"

I pressed my lips together and looked the other way. Sherlock either had a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, or he enjoyed showing off. I decided to go with a mix of the two.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson sniffed. "Someone told you."

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock countered, no longer finding Anderson interesting enough to look at. I followed his gaze to see him looking at Sergeant Donovan.

"My deodorant?" Anderson questioned speculatively.

"It's for men," Sherlock scoffed, looking at Anderson as though it was obvious.

"Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

I felt a giggle rise up and I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop it. 'Inappropriate,' I told myself. 'Inappropriate time to laugh'. Anderson spun around to look at Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock, seeing my amused expression, decided to make another joke.

"Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now, look, whatever you're trying to imply..." Anderson began warningly before Sherlock cut him off.

"I'm not implying anything," he said as he walked past Anderson. I followed, biting my lip as I tried to hold in my laughter. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice chat and just happened to stay over." As he passed Sally, Sherlock smirked and she shut her eyes, clearly annoyed and embarrassed. Served her right. Being rude to Sherlock obviously wasn't good for you social life. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Sherlock grinned at them briefly before going back into the house.

I sent Sally an amused but sympathetic look as I passed. She might have been rude, but she was lucky the others around weren't paying close enough attention to Sherlock to hear what he'd said.

"Ms. Watson, what do you think?"

I blinked, glancing between Lestrade and Sherlock. "Of the message or the body?"

"The body. You're a medical woman."

"Well, no, we have a whole team outside," Lestrade argued, confused as to why Sherlock wanted my opinion.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said, disregarding the comment. He looked back at me.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," Lestrade grumbled.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Because you need me."

There was silence between the two men before Lestrade relented. "Yes, I do." He snorted to himself and let his gaze drop to stare past the floor. "God help me."

"Ms. Watson," Sherlock said once more. I glanced up at him then at Lestrade, wanting to know if it was all right.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," he sighed in defeat before leaving. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

I kneeled down beside the body, Sherlock opposite me. The woman looked middle aged. She obviously liked the color pink, considering everything but her hair was some shade of the color. She'd scratched the message _Rache_ into the floor with her left hand, so she was left handed. None of this was really any help to figuring out anything interesting, however. I glanced up at Sherlock who looked at me expectantly.

"Well?" He asked, curious as to why I hadn't started guessing anything.

"What exactly do you want me to do here?" I asked.

"Help me prove a point," He replied softly.

"I thought I was going to help pay the rent," I hissed back.

"Well, this is more fun," Sherlock countered.

"Fun?" I questioned, shocked. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

I pursed my lips and sent him an annoyed glance before looking back at the woman's body. I heard Lestrade come back into the room and sent him a wave. Sherlock then sent me an annoyed look so I went back to the cadaver.

I checked over the body, looking at the coloration of her neck and smelling her face. I then took her hand and spread it flat, glancing over her fingers and wrists. "Asphyxiation most likely," I said, leaning back on my feet. "Passed out and choked on her own vomit. I don't smell any alcohol on her, so it could've been a seizure, maybe drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers," Sherlock said darkly. I shared a look with him and added on.

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth one, I believe." I glanced down at the body. "She's left handed. Doesn't do work with her hands since her nails are so nice. Even though the polish is chipped off, the nail is extremely healthy. She obviously didn't work much with her hands. They're soft, no callouses. Something in entertainment? I don't know, a reporter or something like that?" I was grasping at straws by end of it, but Sherlock was looking at me with interest. Maybe I'd gotten something right after all.

Lestrade spoke up from the doorway. "Sherlock – two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got."

Sherlock stood up while I struggled to get to my feet. Damned leg...

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase." Sherlock rattled off.

Lestrade frowned. "Suitcase?"

I glanced around the room but didn't see any suitcase either.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake," Lestrade groaned. "If you're just making this up..."

Sherlock pointed down to the woman's left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

I couldn't help it I was in awe. I gaped a bit and said admiringly, "That's brilliant!" Sherlock turned around and looked at me sharply before swiveling around to face Lestrade again. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock looked between the two of us. "It's obvious, isn't it?

I shook my head. "Not to me."

Sherlock paused as he looked between DI Lestrade and myself. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." I pursed my lips and decided to ignore that.

Sherlock turned back to the body.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock got his phone out his pocket and showed Lestrade and I the webpage he'd looked at earlier displaying the daily weather for the southern part of Britain. " Cardiff."

I did it again. I really couldn't help it. I tried to imagine what it must be like to live inside his mind and just know all the stuff just by glancing at a person. "That's amazing," I said, looking at him in wonder.

Sherlock turned to look at me and said in a lowered voice, "You do realize you're doing that out loud?"

I felt my cheeks flush. "Right. Sorry. I'll stop."

Sherlock shook his head, looking slightly surprised. "No... it's fine."

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock began to spin around the room, eyes cast in every corner. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock spun to a stop in front of Lestrade and said, quite sarcastically, "No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

"How d'you _know _she had a suitcase?"

In answer, Sherlock indicated the woman's legs with his arm. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." Sherlock squatted down by the woman's body and examined her close more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade said with a frown as he crossed his arms.

Sherlock froze then slowly raised his head to look up at Lestrade, frown marring his features. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock straightened up and headed for the door. "Suitcase!" He called as he began to descend the stairs. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

Lestrade and I followed him out and watched his descent from the landing. "Sher, there's no case!" Lestrade called down to him stubbornly.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look back at us. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clears signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." Sherlock began to hurry down the stairs again.

"Right, yeah, thanks," Lestrade grumbled. He leaned over the banister. "And?"

Sherlock stopped once more to look at us. "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings - serial killings." He began to smile in delight and clapped his hands together in front of his face. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to." He started down the stairs again.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, quite confused. I really just didn't know what to make of the situation anymore.

Sherlock stopped and called up to the rest of the forensics team above him, "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." He began to quietly speak to himself. "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

"She couldn't have checked into a hotel," I supplied. Lestrade looked at me curiously. "Come on. Her shoes match her lipstick! And look at her hair! She wouldn't have gone out in public looking like that."

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, and I looked down at him. "Say that again."

"She wouldn't have left a hotel looking like she does now," I said.

"Oh," said Sherlock, his face completely delighted, as though some great realization had come upon him. "Oh!" He clapped his hands together again. Must have been a habit when he got excited.

"Sherlock?" I called, questioning.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade leaned further over the railing to get a better to look at the detective.

Sherlock smiled cheerfully to himself. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade exclaimed, outraged at the idea of it.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock called back. He began to hurry down the stairs again.

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from view.

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade shouted, clearly getting annoyed. I jumped at the way his voice seemed to bounce off every corner of the house.

Sherlock came back for a moment to poke his head into view. "Pink!" He shouted back before hurrying off again.

Lestrade, baffled, turned and went back into the room while Anderson and his team, who had been waiting on the next landing down, hurried up the stairs and followed him into the room.

I realized that I didn't serve a purpose anymore since Sherlock had left. A few of the people from Anderson's team bumped into me in their haste to get into the room. I righted myself and began to hobble down the stairs awkwardly. An officer rushed past me to get upstairs and knocked me off balance. He didn't even apologize to me, as though he hadn't even seen me. I latched onto the banister so I would fall over, and the officer just behind him grabbed my shoulder and sent me an apologetic smile, leaving after I'd righted myself.

When I'd finally gotten down the stairs and out of the blue outfit, I went outside and scanned the crowd for Sherlock, searching for his curly hair. I went towards the police tape, hoping to see him waiting for me somewhere on the other side.

"He's gone." I turned to see Sally Donovan looking at me, arms crossed.

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" I asked, hoping she would say some other name.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" I asked, grimacing as I realized how alone I was.

"Didn't look like it." Sally said unhelpfully.

"Right." I sighed, looking around and trying to decide what to do. "Right." I looked back at Sally. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton."

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er... well..." I looked down at my walking stick awkwardly. " ...my leg.

Sally glanced at the officer beside her for a moment before lifting the police tape for me. "Try the main road."

I ducked under the tape and quickly said, "Thanks."

"But you're not his friend." I frowned and turned to look at Sally. "He doesn't _have_ friends. So who _are_ you?"

"I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him," I said, realizing how true that actually was.

"Okay, bit of advice then; stay away from that guy." Sally looked completely serious now, not even a little biased.

"Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" I asked. Sure, he was eccentric at times, but I couldn't imagine him killing someone just for the fun of it. If anything Sherlock got off on solving the mystery of it. If he killed the person, he'd know how it happened, and there wouldn't be any draw to it for him.

"Because he's a psychopath." Sally said gravely. "And psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" I glanced over her shoulder to see Lestrade calling to her.

"Coming!" She called back. As she walked away, she looked at me over her shoulder. Her face was softer now, though her eyes were firm. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she advised, and then disappeared into the building.

I pursed my lips as I watched her walk away. Maybe there was a bit of truth to what she said. Maybe Sherlock was a psychopath. However, as soon as I thought that, I disregarded it. No, he couldn't be. This Sally Donovan was just a rude woman with no manners. I turned and began to walk towards the main rode, deciding that I'd just have to walk till I got a cab.

As I started walking, I heard a ringing to my left and saw a phone box ringing. I frowned. They weren't supposed to ring. I figured it was just a prank of some kind and walked away. After a few steps, it stopped ringing. Another way down the street, it started again. And when I answered that phone, a black car pulled up beside me on the curb. The window rolled down and a pretty girl with dark hair sat inside, clicking away on a Blackberry. She looked up at me and smiled sweetly. Not-Anthea wasn't much for conversation on the way to our mystery location, and the whole way, I couldn't help but wonder what I'd gotten myself into.


	3. Blackberries and Canes

_One of the most amazing things that can happen is finding someone who sees everything you are and won't let you be anything less. They see the potential of you. They see endless possibilities. And through their eyes, you start to see yourself the same way. As someone who matters. As someone who can make a difference in this world._

_ -Susane Colasanti_

* * *

><p>The car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit stood standing at the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella as he watched the car stop. I climbed out began to walk over to him<p>

He had a thin chin, small lips, and thin brown hair. He wore a well tailored suit and expensive shoes. In front of the man, a straight-backed armless chair stood facing him. The man gestured to it with the point of his umbrella as I limped towards him leaning heavily on my cane. Stupid leg...

"Have a seat, Anna."

I ignored him and kept walking, deciding not to answer. Maybe this was wasn't my smartest move, but if the man could hack into security cameras on completely separate buildings, then he was obviously someone unsatisfactory.

"You know, I've got a phone." I said, glancing around the warehouse. It was creepy. Half full and only some of the lights turned on. Very creepy. "I mean, very clever and all that, but you could just phoned me. On my phone."

I ignored the chair he'd provided for me and stopped just in front of him. Sitting down would put him above me, and in an unknown situation, having equal playing field was key.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." said the man. His voice, which had a pleasant tone in it at first became a little more stern towards the end. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." That pleasant smile was back, even spoken with a gracious voice. I didn't believe it for a minute.

"I don't wanna sit down." I looked up at him, face blank. I was rather good at that. I didn't like have my emotions played out over my face all the time. I certainly didn't want this man to know what I was feeling. I could tell from the ominous car ride and the vacant, abandoned area that he was trying to intimidate me.

The man looked me over curiously. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," I countered.

The man chuckled, true mirth on his face. "Ah, yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" I felt my eyebrow twitch as he subtly called me stupid. 'Control. Focus.' No need to punch him. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him..." I blinked, realizing that I'd barely known him for a day. " ... yesterday."

"Mmm," said the man, unconvinced. "And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

I sneered at him. "Oh, you're funny, too! Who _are_ you?"

"An interested party." I frowned.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?" I had to give him that one. Sherlock seemed to repel people more often that he attracted them. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?" I questioned. "Really?"

"In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch_-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." I could certainly believe that.

I pointedly looked around the empty warehouse before looking back at him with a bright smile. "Well, thank God _you're_ above all that."

The man frowned at me. Obviously he wasn't used to people being blatantly rude to his face. My phone trilled, telling me I had a text alert. I immediately fished it out of my pocket, eager to have an excuse not to talk to the rude man.

_Baker Street._

_Come at once if convenient._

_SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not at all." I said casually as I put my phone back in my pocket. Sherlock left me stranded in Brixton with a limp leg and no idea where I was. He could wait awhile.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" The man asked, finally getting to his point.

"I could be wrong," I started, feigning a look of doubt, "but I think that's none of your business."

"It _could_ be." said the man ominously.

"It _really_ couldn't." I disagreed seriously, my voice soft.

He looked at me for a moment before reaching into his pocket. The man took a notebook from his inside pocket, then opened it and began to read from it.

"If you _do_ move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one _B_ Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He shut his notebook and put it away.

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Because you're not a wealthy woman," said the man, as though this should be an obvious reason.

"In exchange for what?" I asked, knowing that things like that offer always came with strings attached.

"Information." The man said simply. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly." Oh. I felt a little wary now. Was he obsessed with Sherlock?

"That's nice of you," I said insincerely.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship." It was starting to sound sketchy. I didn't know who he was, but I knew that I wasn't going to help him in any way. My phone trilled again. I took it out once more and saw a new text message.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

I smiled at the text. Oh, yes. There was something interesting in this. I couldn't describe what it was, but something about Sherlock just drew me to him. "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," said the man.

I put my phone away. "Don't bother."

The man laughed briefly, looking at me with something akin to wonderment. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly."

"No, I'm not," I disagreed.

The man looked at me closely for a moment before he took out his notebook and and flipped it open. He gestured to something written on the paper. "Trust issues," it says here."

"What's that?" I asked, beginning to feel a bit unnerved.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" The man asked, ignoring my question as he casually flipped through the pages. Trust issues. I thought back to my therapist. She'd written down that I'd had trust issues. Did he somehow get into my records? And was trusting Sherlock really such a bad thing?

"Who says that I trust him?" I asked carefully.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," said the man. I wasn't sure if he is answering my question or asking me one.

"Are we done?" I asked irritably.

"You tell me." The man stared at me, and everything on his face told me that he was leaving it completely up to me.

I pursed my lips and nodded my head to myself. I turned on my heel and began to limp away, more than ready to be away from the man.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him," said the man behind me. I winced, not bothering to stop walking. "but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

I stopped dead. I felt my shoulders tense and drop as I angrily shook my head. Why was I turning around? He was obviously goading me to try and keep me there. To try and convince me to spy on Sherlock for him.

I glared at the man, trying to control my anger. "My what?"

The man responded calmly, merely glancing at my hand and then back at my face. He smiled. "Show me."

He planted the tip of his umbrella on the ground, making it obvious he is quite used to having his orders followed without hesitation or question. I refused to be intimidated and deliberately shift my feet under myself. I raised my left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stand still. My message was clear: if the man wanted to look at my hand, he'd have to come to me. Apparently unperturbed by my belligerence, the man strolled forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reached for my hand. I instantly pulled my hand back a little.

"Don't." I said tensely.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at me, almost as if saying, 'Did I mention trust issues?' I very reluctantly lowered my hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man took it in both of his own hands and looked at it closely.

"Remarkable."

"What is?" I asked as I quickly snatched my hand away.

The man turned and walked a few paces away. "Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned towards me again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" I asked tersely, choosing to ignore his question. If he knew where I lived, he obviously knew what I'd been doing.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Said the man conversationally. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

I almost flinched as the man accurately fired off facts at me. The man obviously was so interested in me because of Sherlock. If I'd only known Sherlock for one day, how much would the odd man know about me by tomorrow? Or next week?

"Who the hell are you?" I asked angrily and a little desperate. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." The man said firmly, once again ignoring my questions, eyeing me steadily. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

My eyes flickered down towards my hand before returning to stare ahead of myself, face set and struggling to hold back my anger.

"You're not haunted by the war, Ms. Watson ... you _miss _it."

He leaned closer to me. Reluctantly, my eyes rose up to meet his.

"Welcome back." The man whispered softly.

He turned and started to walk away just as my phone trilled another text alert.

"Time to choose a side, Ms. Watson," said the strange man casually, twirling his umbrella around as he left.

I stood fixed to that spot for a few seconds, then turned and glanced towards the departing man as, behind me, the car door opened and not-Anthea got out and walks a few paces towards me, her attention still riveted to the Blackberry held in front of her in both hands.

"I'm to take you home," not-Anthea said sweetly.

I half-turned towards her, then stopped and took out my phone to look at the new message. It read:

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

I really couldn't help but smile. I looked back at Not-Anthea, who was looking at me curiously. "We'll just make one stop before then, all right?"

* * *

><p>After stopping off by my flat to grab my handgun, I returned to the car with not-Anthea and continued the ride to 221B in near silence with the only sound being not-Anthea's keypad on her Blackberry. Really, what was she doing on it? Probably pretending to be doing something important so she wouldn't have to talk to me. I slouched back in my seat, messing with the zipper on my jacket. Was I really that dull? Then again, a character like the man I'd just met probably had a lot of things on his plate. I shouldn't have been surprised that he'd have an assistant to do things for him.<p>

We pulled up in front of 221B and I quickly climbed out of the car, grateful to be anywhere but near the rude woman, who didn't even bother saying goodbye. Really, it wasn't that hard.

I limped up to the door and tapped the knocker against the wood lightly, hoping Sherlock was still awake and I wouldn't be bothering Mrs. Hudson. No luck. She opened the door, looking slightly frazzled. She beamed when she saw me. "Oh, Anna! Wonderful to see you, dear! You wanting to see Sherlock, then? He'll be upstairs now. He must be asleep - haven't heard a peep from up there in almost two hours!"

I smiled and nodded as Mrs. Hudson let me in. "So it's all right for me to just head on up, then?"

"Oh, yes, fine," Mrs. Hudson said with a wave. "His door's usually unlocked." She paused for a moment then looked at me in an almost motherly kind of way. "I've known Sherlock for a while, dearie. He's a nice boy, he really is. But he's an odd one, as well. Very detached. Almost otherworldly if you ask me. You seem like a very nice young lady, so I just wanted to warn you before you get yourself too attached to him."

I felt a blush hit my cheeks as she looked at me with concern. "Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson, I think you have this wrong. I've only just met Sherlock very recently. We're not involved in any way. We're just helping each other out. I help with the bills and he gives me a place to stay. Simple as that."

"If you say so, dear," Mrs. Hudson said in a voice that remained unconvinced. "Up you go."

When I got up the stairs, the door to the living room flat was wide open. I carefully peered inside and stopped dead in shock. Sherlock was laying on the sofa with a calm expression on his face. He wasn't wearing his jacket and the sleeves of his dress shirt were pushed up his arms. He was pressing the palm of his right hand firmly to the bottom of his left arm below his elbow. After a few moments, his eyes snapped open and he let out an almost blissful breath of air and relaxed further into the couch.

"What are you doing?" I asked quickly.

Not bothering to look at me, he continued to stare at the ceiling as he answered. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think." He lifted his left arm to show three nicotine patches stuck to his arm. I felt my eyes widen. He must have been trying to get the chemical into his system faster by pressing them to his skin too tightly. I could see angry red fingers marks against the pale skin. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork."

"It's good news for breathing," I supplied as I walked into the room.

Sherlock snorted dismissively. "Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring."

I couldn't help but bring up the fact that he was wearing _three _patches on his arm. That seemed a little excessive. "You're wearing three patches, Sherlock."

"It's a three-patch problem." I pursed my lips and moved to stand beside the couch. I didn't know him well enough to lecture him about his life, but the nurse in me was having a field day. Instead, I simply broached the subject of why he'd called me to the flat.

"Well?" Sherlock didn't respond. I grit my teeth for a moment. What an infuriating man! "You asked me to come. I assume it's important."

He didn't respond for a while and I was about to flick his ear when he finally spoke. "Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

I blinked. My phone? He called me all the way there to ask to borrow my phone? "My phone? You want to borrow my phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone downstairs."

"I tried shouting but she didn't hear." I frowned. Mrs. Hudson said she hadn't heard him make a sound in the last two hours.

"I was on the other side of London, Sherlock." I said, my voice getting agitated.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock said mildly. I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. I focused my eyes on the ceiling, willing my heart to stop it's frustrated beating. I waited several seconds before I pulled my phone out of my pocket and passed it to him without looking.

"Here." Prat.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock held out his right hand with the palm up. I glowered at him for a moment, then stepped forward and slapped the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifted his arm and put his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms. I turned and walk a few paces away before turning around again.

"So what's this about – the case?"

"Her case." Sherlock said softly.

Did he have to be so frustrating? "Her case?"

Sherlock opened his eyes but didn't look at me. "Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?" I really wished he would just fill me in sometimes. It got so tiring feeling stupid all the time.

Sherlock spoke quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself. Maybe he thought he was. I honestly wouldn't have been surprised if he'd forgotten I was there entirely. "It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it." He imperiously held the phone out towards me, still not looking at me. "On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

I could practically feel that twitch in my jaw turn to full-blown spasming. "You brought me here ... to send a text." My voice was practically shaking with angry disbelief.

Sherlock spoke calmly, quite oblivious to my rather obvious frustration. "Text, yes. The number on my desk."

He continued to hold the phone out while I glowered at him, and went through a series of scenarios usually ending up with my hands wrapped around the arrogant man's throat. Deciding it wasn't worth the lawsuit, I stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes but instead of asking what to type, I walk over to the window and look out into the street below. Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head slightly towards me.

"What's wrong?" He didn't ask out of concern or genuine curiosity. He asked because his orders weren't being followed.

"Just met a friend of yours." It only seemed right to tell him about to unnerving man who'd practically kidnapped me. I noticed Sherlock frown in confusion.

"A friend?"

"An enemy, I suppose," I corrected myself.

Sherlock immediately relaxed. Odd man. "Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." I turned to face him, honestly curious about the strange man in the warehouse. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked at me suspiciously with narrowed eyes. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No." I thought that was the answer he was looking for. At least, that would've been the logical answer.

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." He was completely serious.

"Who is he?" I asked, not even wanting to bother to try and delve into the fact of why he would want me to do that.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now." His words were soft and I began to wonder if there was a deeper history there than he was letting on. Speaking louder, he said, "On my desk, the number."

I gave him a dark look but Sherlock had already looked away again so I just walked over to the desk and picked up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. I looked at the name on the paper.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number." I frowned, shaking my head, but did as I was told. "Are you doing it?" He sounded quite impatient and, dare I say, almost excited.

"Yes." Count to ten, Anna. Count to ten.

"Have you done it?"

"Ye... hang on! God, give me a minute!"

"These words exactly: "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out." I started to type but looked briefly across to Sherlock, slightly concerned about what he was having my write. Who was he talking to? "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come."

"You blacked out?" When had that happened?

"What? No. No!" Sherlock flipped his legs around and stood up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen – which was walking over the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it. "Type and send it. Quickly."

Going into the kitchen, he picked up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brought it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifted one of the dining chairs and flipped it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He put the suitcase onto the dining chair and sat down in the armchair. I was sending the message when he opened his mouth again.

"Have you sent it?"

I put my phone away, deciding not to answer. I turned around as Sherlock unzipped the case and flipped open the lid, revealing the contents. There were a few items of clothing and underwear – all in varying shades of pink – a wash bag, and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled "Come To Bed Eyes". I flushed - Paul Bunch wrote some pretty lewd books. As I turned towards the case I staggered slightly in shock as I realize exactly what I'm looking at.

"That's ... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case!" Where on Earth did he get that?

"Yes, obviously." I continued to stare, waiting for him to tell me how he came across her case. Sherlock looked up at me and then rolled his eyes. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her." His voice was heavily sarcastic.

"I never said you did." I sat down beside him, pawing through her suitcase. Maybe there were more clues inside... Credit cards, maybe? An address book?

"Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption." He peered at me closely, trying to see through any lies I might have been about to tell.

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" I asked curiously, quietly, turning my gaze from the mound of pink to look at him. He smirked suddenly and I couldn't help but note how attractive he was in an unconventional kind of way. I suddenly realized I'd been thinking that a lot recently and shoved that thought to the back of my mind.

"Now and then, yes." He put his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifted his feet up and under him so that he was perching on the back of the chair, watching me as I looked through the credit cards in her billfold. "Sometimes I think you're purposely trying to scare me away," I said humorously, smiling to myself. When Sherlock was silent, I looked at him again. His gaze was questioning. I grinned. "It's not working."

A new light came into his eyes. It wasn't attraction, bewilderment, boredom, or even shock. It was intrigue. "Good to know."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and I were walking down the street, heading to God knows where. I walked slightly behind him, staring at his back. Sherlock was a tall man with an imposing figure. It was as if he was trying to take in every image around him, commit it to memory. Did he ever stop? Every time I looked at him, his eyes were flickering between images in front of him. It was like he viewed the world in an entirely different perspective, saw things that I didn't. It was fascinating and extremely interesting.<p>

Finally, I broke the silence. "Where are we going?"

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here."

"You think he's stupid enough to actually go there?" I sped up to walk beside him so I could see his face, two of my steps matching one of his long-legged strides.

Sherlock smiled then, a rather pleasant one, too. "No – I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why's that?" I asked curiously. If you're going to commit a crime, why bother trying to get caught?

"Appreciation!" Sherlock said brightly. "Applause! At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Anna: it needs an audience."

I glanced at Sherlock, seeing much of his last words in him. Sherlock was a show-off. That much was obvious. But more than that, he needed people to appreciate what he did. When I voiced my genuine approval of his brilliance, he seemed to become more animated afterwards, almost as if he secretly thrived on approval. Would he still be the same man if there was no one to appreciate the genius of Sherlock Holmes? Would Sergeant Donovan be right someday? If he was bored enough, secluded enough, would he really create a murder that only he could solve, just to gain back the appreciation, to know that someone out there relied on him and could only do something, like solve a murder, with his help. Was that what I was? An ego boost whenever he needed it?

Sherlock spun around to indicate the entire area around us as we continued down the road. He looked elated. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." He held his hand up to the side of his face, almost as if it would concentrate his thoughts. What was that character from that comic? Professor Xavier? It was like that character, trying to focus his thoughts. Except Sherlock couldn't read minds. But, then again, that would explain a lot of things if he _could_ read minds.

"Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

I thought about it, scanning the area around me. Everyone was busy, moving from place to place in a rush as always. Car lights lit the streets as they passed. Shop owners began to close down for the night. Who, then? I wanted to show Sherlock that I wasn't as stupid as he seemed to think I was, but I really couldn't answer his question. "I'm not sure. Who?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?" Lowering his hands, he lead me onwards and into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door clearly knew Sherlock. As soon as we stepped in, he perked up and quickly ushered us to off to a quiet, secluded table by the window.

"Thank you, Billy." Sherlock said as he removed his coat and sat down on the bench seat, immediately turning so he could see out the window. The waiter, Billy, took away the 'Reserved' sign as I sat down opposite Sherlock and removed my red leather jacket.

Sherlock nodded towards a building across the road. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," I said as I adjusted myself to look out the window.

"He has killed four people," Sherlock pointed out grimly.

"Okay," I said slowly. "Do you think every serial killer is crazy?"

The owner of the restaurant came over before Sherlock could answer me, beaming brightly. He obviously knew Sherlock and was very pleased to see him.

"Sherlock," said the man happily, shaking Sherlock's hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." He laid a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you and for your date."

I blinked. Date?

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked, once more ignoring the implication that we were in a relationship.

"I'm not his date," I explained to the man. Why did everyone think we were a couple?

"This man got me off a murder charge," said our waiter in a jovial tone. Was he ignoring me? Why did everyone ignore me when I explained Sherlock and I weren't together?

"This is Angelo," Sherlock said off-handedly, his eyes flickering to me for a moment before looking back out at the street.

Angelo took my hand and kissed the back of it. I may have usually been offended, but there was something nice about him, so I let it slide.

"Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." Oh. Maybe not so nice. Sherlock caught my gaze and I think he almost smiled.

"He cleared my name." Angelo said as he rubbed his hands with the towel tucked into his apron.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?" Sherlock asked lightly.

"Nothing. But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." Angelo said charmingly. The way he could continue talking to Sherlock is such a happy way when he was being so flippant was a little surprising.

I frowned and called after him indignantly, "I'm not his date!"

Sherlock put down his menu after blandly looking through the pages.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." Did he seriously not care that people thought we were dating?

Angelo came back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He put it on the table and gave me a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

"Thanks," I muttered. I looked up at Sherlock again. "Do you really not care? First Mrs. Hudson, then that weird man in the empty garage, and now our waiter?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I felt a twitch form in my jaw.

"They all think we're dating, Sherlock. Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"Am I such terrible company that you don't want to have others entertain the idea of us being together?"

"No, of course not," I said with a frown.

"Do you feel the need to be right all of the time?" Sherlock asked, looking straight into my eyes.

"No, I don't."

"Then I see no reason for you to want to constantly correct them," Sherlock said easily, looking back at the streets. "Let the small people who don't have anything better to spend their thoughts on worrying over what our relationship is."

Even though it was a roundabout compliment, I felt myself smile. "Are you saying I'm not a small person?"

Sherlock glanced at me. "Of course you're a small person. Look at the size of you - you barely reach my shoulder."

I pursed my lips, reminding myself that Sherlock himself was a very literal person.

Later, my food arrived and I began to eat. I would occasionally look up at Sherlock who had yet to look from the street. He quietly drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes flickering around the lights on the street.

I remembered something from earlier and frowned. "People don't have archenemies."

It took him a minute, but Sherlock realized I had spoken and turned to look at me. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock lost interest and looked out the window again. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet, then?" I asked

Sherlock responded with another question. "What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?"

"Friends," I said easily, trying to ignore Sherlock's soft scoff. "people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull." I looked at him peculiarly. Did he really not have anyone close to him at all?

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" I found that a little odd, at least – yes, Sherlock was a sarcastic twit who seemed to enjoy being smarter and better than everyone else, but some girls really like rude guys. And there was no denying that Sherlock was extremely handsome in a cold, strange way.

Sherlock didn't even look up from the window, displaying how utterly bored he was with the question. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm," I hummed in response, continuing eating my food. A second later, I thought about his words again. Not his area? It suddenly dawned on me and I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment. Right. Him being so pretty made a lot of sense, then.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" I asked, hoping to keep some semblance of the conversation going. Sherlock suddenly turned on me sharply and I almost winced. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Sherlock said, staring at me oddly.

I smiled, trying to show him that I hadn't meant anything to sound offensive at all. "So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No." Sherlock said firmly, as though he was trying to stamp several ideas out of my head at once.

I continued smiling, unsure of what else to do. "Right. You're unattached. Like me." I looked down at my half-eaten food, feeling my cheeks flush again. I had no idea what else to say. I felt confused and as though I'd offended him somehow. "Right. Good." I awkwardly let the conversation die, unsure how to keep it going when he simply shut down any topic I tried to broach.

I was surprised when I heard Sherlock begin speaking in a slightly hesitant, faltering tone. "Anna, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."

By the time I'd interrupted him, he was very nearly babbling. "No. No, I'm not asking. No." I stared hard at Sherlock, hoping to show him that I had no intention of pursuing him. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock stared at me for a moment longer before nodding. "Good. Thank you."

He turned his attention back to the street. I looked away with an bemused expression on my face. Sherlock was definitely a very strange person. Just then, Sherlock nodded out of the window.

"Look across the street. Taxi." His pale eyes were trained across the street.

I twisted around in my seat to look out of the window where a taxi had parked at the side of the road. It was facing away from the restaurant, lights still on.

"Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." His eyes suddenly began to hold a light of excitement.

Through the back window, I could see the passenger looking through the side windows as if looking for someone or something.

Sherlock began to speak to himself quietly, something I was almost rapidly growing used to. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" I asked, just to be sure, peering harder out the window to try and discern anything about the man.

"Don't stare," Sherlock said, though his continued to.

I frowned. "You're staring."

"We can't both stare." Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"Why do you get to stare?"

"I'm the detective."

Getting to his feet, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and headed for the door. I scrambled for my own jacket and followed. Outside the door, Sherlock shrugged himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continued to look around him, then turned and looks out the back window. His gaze fell on the restaurant and he looked at it for a few moments while Sherlock stared back at him. It felt like a stand off. The man turned towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi began to pull away from the side of the road.

Sherlock immediately headed towards it without stopping to check the road. I yelped and surged after him naturally, trying to grab a fistful of his coat. I missed and Sherlock was almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the car but Sherlock, rolled over the bonnet, landed on his feet on the other side, and then ran after the taxi. As the driver of the car angrily blared his horn, I broke myself out of my stunned daze, put one hand on the bonnet and vaulted myself over the front of the car, apologizing to the driver quickly when I was on the other side. "Sorry!"

I chased after Sherlock, who ran a few yards up the road before realizing that he was not going to catch the taxi and slowed to a halt. I caught up and stopped beside him.

"I've got the cab number," I said, trying to be helpful.

"Good for you," Sherlock said casually. I glared up at him in shock, catching my breath.

Sherlock brought his hands up to either side of his head and shut his eyes. I stared at him, confused as he would occasionally wince or his eyes would twitch. Beneath the eyelids, Sherlock's eyes were flying left, right, up, and down, as thought he were dreaming a vivid dream.

He lifted his head and looked across the street. Following his line of sight, I saw a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Sherlock raced towards the man and grabbed him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.

I hurried after Sherlock, raising an apologetic hand to the man as I passed him, who shouted angrily after us. "Sorry!"

The two of us raced up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. Sherlock, the lanky git, took the steps two or even three at a time and I struggled to keep up with him as I scurried up behind him.

"Come on, Anna," Sherlock called from above me, pausing for only a second to make sure I was still behind him.

When we reached the top of the stairs, we ran to the edge and looked over. Below us was a shorter metal spiral staircase that lead down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. Sherlock flew down the stairs and climbed onto the railing before he leapt across the gap to the next building. Once again, I scrambled after him, climbing onto the railing and following. Sherlock ran across to the other side of the roof and again leapt across to the next building.

I raced after him, but then I skidded to a halt as I realized that the gap may be too big for me to jump in good shape from working out and going on runs, but I was still shorter than Sherlock, who was at least six feet tall. Would my legs be able to carry me as far as him? As if in sympathy, I noticed pedestrian traffic lights on the ground change from the green "It is safe to cross" sign to the red "Stop and wait" sign. I hesitated, looking down at the drop beneath me. It was a long way down. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest like a drum, ringing in my ears and drowning out the noise below me.

"Come on, Anna," Sherlock called to me, stopping and looking back at me. "We're losing him!"

I backed up a few paces and braced myself, trying not to think about those cartoons where the character splats onto the ground, flat like a pancake. As the traffic lights change to "Safe to cross" again, I take a run-up and leapt the gap. Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, we run onwards as if nothing spectacular just happened.

As the taxi continued its journey on the ground, we gallop down another metal staircase, then run to a ledge and drop down into an alleyway before running onwards again. Maybe it was the adrenaline that burned in my muscles that prevented me from stopping. Maybe it was the need to prove myself to Sherlock. Either way, I didn't feel tired at all, even though I'd been running very hard for a good five minutes. Sherlock lead me down the alleyway and we exited onto D'Arblay Street, which the taxi was just turning into. I was very surprised. How had Sherlock managed to know where the taxi was going to perfectly? Sherlock turned the corner and raced down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock growled angrily. Without breaking stride, he raced out of the end of the alley and turned right.

"This way," Sherlock called to me.

Instinctively, I turned left in the direction of the taxi.

"No, this way!" Sherlock said, grabbing my arm and dragging me along behind him.

"Sorry," I called to him.

We ran down the street and head down more alleyways and side streets towards the interception point on Wardour Street and finally, when we both saw the correct cab, Sherlock raced out of a side street and hurled himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeched to a halt as he crashed hard onto the bonnet, sliding off the side. Scrabbling in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out an I.D. badge and flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right hand side of the cab. Gaping at the audacity of him, I followed. What sane person throws themselves in front of a movie taxi?

"Police! Open her up!" Sherlock said authoritatively, and maybe a little excited.

Panting heavily, Sherlock tugged open the rear door and stared in at the passenger. Instantly Sherlock straightened up in exasperation just as I joined him.

"No," Sherlock groaned, staring up at the sky for a moment. "He leaned down again to look at the passenger a second time. I did as well. An anxious looking man stared back at us.

"Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" Sherlock rattled off, looking around the inside of the cab. He looked at something on the floor in front of the passenger. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived." He straightened up again, grimacing.

"How can you possibly know that?" I wheezed, bracing my hands on my knees as my fatigue finally caught up with me now that I'd stopped running.

"The luggage," Sherlock said, idly gesturing within the taxi.

I looked down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and its luggage label showing that the man had flown from LAX to LHR.

Sherlock looked in at the passenger again. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

The man nervously licked his lips before speaking, his American accent very identifiable. "Sorry – are you guys the police?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said. He flashed the I.D. badge briefly at the man. "Everything all right?"

The man smiled. "Yeah."

Sherlock paused for a moment as if wondering how to finish the conversation, then smiled falsely at the man. "Welcome to London." He immediately walked away, leaving me staring blankly for a moment before I stepped closer to the taxi door and looked in at the American.

"Er, any problems, just let us know." As the man nodded, I smiled politely and slammed the cab door shut. The man looked round to the taxi driver in bewilderment. I walked to where Sherlock had stopped a few yards behind the vehicle.

I have to admit that I stared up at him, slightly smug and very tired. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down."

"Basically." Sherlock muttered.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock said, exasperation growing at my continued questions.

"Wrong country, good alibi."

"As they go," Sherlock said, hoping to stop the conversation of his failure.

I noticed the Sherlock switched the I.D. card from one hand to another. "Hey, where-where did you get this?" I reached a hand out to it. "Here." He released it to me easily. I looked at the name on the card and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

I nodded, then looked down at the card again before lifting my head and giggling silently. "What?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Nothing, just; "Welcome to London"." I looked up at him, grinning.

Sherlock chuckled, then looked down the road to where a police officer had apparently gone to investigate why the cab had stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger had got out and was pointing down the road towards Sherlock and I.

Sherlock looked down at me. "Got your breath back?"

"Ready when you are."

* * *

><p>Back at 221B, we walked along the hallway, breathing heavily. I hung my jacket on a hook on the wall while Sherlock draped his coat over the bottom of the bannisters. Both of us breathing heavily, we looked at each other and began to laugh immediately.<p>

"Okay, that was ridiculous," I said, leaning against the wall and placing a hand on my stomach, which was twitching in pain. Sherlock joined me, also trying to fully catch his breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock said seriously.

I felt a traitorous giggle bubble past my lips. After a moment Sherlock also began to laugh.

"That wasn't just me," I pointed out, grinning up at Sherlock. He chuckled, staring at me curiously for a moment before glancing at the door. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

Sherlock slowly became more serious, waving his hand dismissively at my question. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So why were we there then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, just passing the time." He looked at me again. "And proving a point."

"What point?" I asked, confused.

Sherlock smiled a bit. "You." He turned and called loudly towards the door to Mrs Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Ms. Watson will take the room upstairs."

"Says who?" I crossed crossed my arms, retorting challengingly. _I _knew that I was taking the flat. Who in their right mind _wouldn't_ take the flat with someone as interesting as Sherlock?

Sherlock looked at the front door. "Says the man at the door."

I looked at the door just as someone knocked on it three times. I turned back to look at Sherlock in surprise. He smiled. I stared at him for a moment, then walked along the hall to answer the door. Sherlock leaned his head against the wall and blew out a breath. I opened the door and found Angelo standing outside.

"Sherlock texted me," Smiling, he held up my walking cane. "He said you forgot this."

I was floored. I stared at the cane in his hand, realizing what I'd just done. I'd chased Sherlock halfway across London, leapt over building roofs, and sprinted up shaking metal staircases. I hadn't had the cane with me at all during that time. I turned and looked down the hall to Sherlock, who grinned at me. I felt a breathless laugh leave my lips as I looked at him, idly wondering if there was anything about me he _didn't_ know yet.

* * *

><p>Hey! Thanks so much for reading this, I'm having a great time writing it! I'm currently working through <em>The Blind Banker<em> (it's taking me such a long time _) and should have more posted soon. If you have any comments or constructive criticism, feel free to write me a review! Also, I don't have a beta-reader and I try to spellcheck and edit all of these by myself. Usually I do a pretty good job, but sometimes I'll miss things. If you notice anything, please send me a review about it and I'll try and fix it as soon as possible!

Thanks for reading!


	4. Eyeballs in the Microwave

To: A Nonny Mouse

Hello! First off, if you'd rather not read my explanation for a few choice characteristics of Anna Watson, please continue onto the new chapter and enjoy! Sorry if this bothers anyone.

Anyway, Mouse - I would have appreciated it if you had signed in so I could really reply to your review! But you seemed very upset in your review, so I thought that I'd post my response as an author's note here on a new chapter. You said you wouldn't be reading my story anymore, but I do hope that you come back so you can see this. First of all, thank you for complimenting my story. I've worked hard to come up with it. That being said, I really wanted to make _**my**_ Watson my own. It wasn't as simple as slapping a pair of breasts on John Watson and calling it a done deal. There were complexities that I wanted to highlight that a female Watson would have dealt with. Yes, in my story, Anna Watson is currently a nurse and not a doctor. Why? For personal reasons entirely her own. It has nothing at all to do with sexism. I've known plenty of male nurses and female doctors who were fantastic at their jobs. I fully support gender equal professions.

Anna Watson in my story isn't going to be exactly like John Watson. She is her own character - she's not a mirror image of John with breasts and long hair. She has her own unique past that is almost entirely different from John's. I will not be making everything in this story entirely like the John from the TV show. That's not how I picture Anna. My Anna is a person entirely new to Sherlock, who will share some of John's qualities, but will not be exactly like him **because she's not him. **I'm sorry if that offended you in some way, Nonny Mouse. I hope that you give this story a chance, but if you can't look past my character's profession, then I want to say thanks for giving my story a shot and have a good day.

Okay, enough of that! Onto the story. Thanks to anyone reading this and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><em>The deepest principle in human nature is the craving to be appreciated.<em>

_ - William James_

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><p>I turned back to Angelo. "Er, thank you. Thank you." I took the cane from him and came back in and closed the door just as Mrs Hudson came out of her flat and hurried over to us. She sounded upset and tearful as she spoke.<p>

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, the barest, smallest hint of concern in his voice.

"Upstairs," the tearful woman said, raising a shaking hand to point up the stairs.

Sherlock turned and hurried up the stairs. After checking to make sure Mrs. Hudson would be all right, I followed him. Sherlock opened the living room door and went inside, where Lestrade was sitting casually in the armchair facing the door. Other police officers were going through Sherlock's possessions. Sherlock stormed over to Lestrade.

"What are you doing?" He exclaimed angrily.

Lestrade remained very calm. "Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock said with a glare.

"And you can't withhold evidence," Lestrade retorted. "And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock asked, gesturing at all the officers going through his things.

Lestrade looked round at his officers before looking back to Sherlock innocently. "It's a drugs bust."

I scoffed. "Seriously?! This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!" That sounded ridiculous even to me. Sherlock turned and walked closer to me, biting his lip nervously. I didn't notice.

"Anna ..."

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"Anna, you probably want to shut up now."

I looked up at him, frowning. "Yeah, but come on ..." Sherlock held my gaze for a long moment and I suddenly realized how serious he looked. "No," I said warily.

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed angrily. He turned to look at Lestrade angrily. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade said, obviously enjoying himself. He nodded towards the kitchen

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "What, An..."

The closed doors to the kitchen slid open and revealed several more officers searching through the room. Anderson turns towards the living room and raised his hand in sarcastic greeting.

"Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson said venomously.

Sherlock turned away, biting his lip angrily. I looked up at him in concern. He looked like he was about to snap.

"They all did," Lestrade said casually. "They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

Sergeant Donovan came into view from the kitchen, holding a small glass jar with some white round objects in it. "Are these human eyes?" She asked in disgust.

"Put those back!" Sherlock yelped angrily.

"They were in the microwave!" Exclaimed Donovan.

"It's an experiment," Sherlock replied tersely.

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade said easily. He stood up and turned to Sherlock. "Or you could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

Sherlock began to pace angrily. "This is childish."

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade snipped. "Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him. "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything."

Sherlock loudly exclaimed, "I am clean!"

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." He unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and pulled it up to show the nicotine patch on his lower arm.

"Neither do I," Lestrade said almost challengingly as he pulled up the right sleeve of his own shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away as they both pulled their sleeves back down again, putting an end to their mine's-bigger-than-yours match.

"So let's work together," Lestrade offered. "We've found Rachel." That was totally bait.

I was right. Sherlock spun around, showing interest. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade said. I noticed a look of satisfaction in his eyes. He knew he was drawing Sherlock in with his one temptation.

Sherlock frowned. "Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson called. "We found the case." He pointed to the pink case in the living room and I winced. "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock looked at Anderson disparagingly. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He quickly turned back to Lestrade, ignoring Anderson's outraged look.

"You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her." Sherlock said quickly.

"She's dead," Lestrade said in disappointment.

"Excellent!" Sherlock cheered. I blinked, startled. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be." He was rambling again...

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years." Sherlock looked at him still, waiting. "Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

I grimaced sadly and turned away. Sherlock, on the other hand, just looked confused.

"No, that's... that's not right. How... Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson asked rhetorically, as though it was obvious. "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock turned to him with an exasperated look on his face. "She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt." He began to pace back and forth across the room again.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow." I supplied helpfully.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at me. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?"

I stared at him. Sherlock hesitated as he realized that everyone in the flat had stopped what they were doing and had fallen silent. He glanced around the room and then looked awkwardly at me. "Not good?" He asked hesitantly.

I glanced around at the others before turning back to Sherlock and gave him a half-smile. "Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock shook it off and stepped closer to me, looking at me intently. I felt my heart stutter again and winced.

"Yeah, but if you were dying... if you'd been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

Suddenly flashes of memories blinked before my eyes. Blood, screams, and dirt streaked faces. Without even thinking about it, I thought back to those moments when I'd been shot and the fear that had coursed through my whole body and reach a hand up to rub at the circular scar at my collarbone. Then, a rapid flash of startling green eyes, wide and bloodshot. I winced, bile rising in my throat. "Please, let me live."

Sherlock looked at me in exasperation. "Oh, use your imagination!"

I stared up at him evenly. "I don't have to."

Sherlock seemed to recognize the look of pain on my face. He paused momentarily and blinked a couple of times, shifting his feet awkwardly. His fingers closed into fists once, twice, before he looked at me in what he must have thought was a sort of apologetic face. I decided to take what I could get and gave him a half-hearted smile.

Deciding that I was okay, Sherlock continued on. "Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers; she was clever." He started to pace across the floor again and I wasn't sure if he had just insulted me by not calling me clever. "She's trying to tell us something."

Mrs. Hudson came into the living, much calmer now that she knew that Sherlock was not being arrested. "Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't even look at her before he responded. "I didn't order a taxi. Go away." I watched his feet walk, wondering if he would actually be able to wear a hole in the boards if he paced as often as he did.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, surveying the mayhem in the room, not even slightly put off by Sherlock's rudeness. "They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson," I told her.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly looked very anxious and nervous. "But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."

Facing away from everyone, Sherlock suddenly exploded, bringing his hands up to claw at the air around his face. "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think." Taking a deep, calming breath, Sherlock continued. "Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What?" Anderson yelped in outrage. "My face is?!"

"Everybody quiet and still," Lestrade ordered, his officers immediately setting everything down and standing still. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake..."

"Your back, now, please!"

Sherlock began to speak to himself again as Anderson turned his back and crossed his arms. "Come on, think. Quick!"

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asked in concern.

Sherlock turned Mrs. Hudson suddenly and shouted furiously, "MRS. HUDSON!"

She jumped and hurried away down the stairs. I winced as I watched her go. I understood why Sherlock had been so upset, it had been rather loud in the room, but I still felt bad that Mrs. Hudson got the worst end of his anger. Sherlock stopped suddenly and looked around as he seemed to finally realize something.

"Oh," he whispered in understanding awe. He smiled in delight as he turned around. "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" He walked across the room and then turned to face all of us again. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." He started pacing again. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. "Wha...? What do you mean, how?" He sounded annoyed that we didn't understand what he did.

Lestrade shrugged.

"Rachel!" Sherlock exclaims, as though that is all we need to know to fit the pieces together. We stared at him blankly.

"Don't you see? Rachel!" I thought about what he was saying and looked to where Sherlock kept glancing. It was at the case. What about it was special, though? Sherlock noticed me looking and surged towards me, looking at me intently. "You're getting it. You can see. Rachel!" As he waited for me to piece it together, he looked over my head at the others behind me. His face slipped into one of curiosity. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing."

"It's not a name," I said in surprise. I looked up at Sherlock and he was smiling at me, almost proudly. He patted me on the head and walked around me. "Very good, Anna." I frowned after him.

"I'm not a dog," I grumbled, following him as I patted my hair down.

"Then what is it?" Lestrade asked sternly.

"Anna, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address."

I snatched up the case and read off the e-mail address. "Jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

Sherlock sat down at the dining table and was starting up his laptop computer.

"Oh, I've been too slow," Sherlock admonished himself as I joined him at his shoulder. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He pulled up Mephone's website and typed the email address into the 'User name' box. "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address ..." He began to type into the 'Password' box. " ... and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel," I answered, staring as Sherlock typed in the words.

"So we can read her e-mails," Anderson asked, shrugging his shoulders with his arms crossed. "So what?"

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street." Anderson's face puffed up in agitation but Lestrade hushed him. I fought a smirk. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade said as though it would be an obvious thing to do.

"We know he didn't," I told him.

Sherlock looked at the screen impatiently, waiting for the screen to load. "Come on, come on. Quickly!"

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs again and came to the door again. "Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver..."

Sherlock got to his feet and walked over towards her. "Mrs Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?"

Ignoring the two as they started to squabble, I sat down in the chair Sherlock left and watched the spinning clock. The website said it would be able to locate the phone in under three minutes. Behind me, I heard Sherlock start talking again. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last for ever.

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

"It's a start!"

A map suddenly appeared and was zooming in on the location of the phone. Slightly startled, I didn't take my eyes off the screen as I quietly called to Sherlock. "Sherlock..."

He didn't even hear me. "It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock," I said, louder.

Sherlock hurried across the room to look over my shoulder. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

The map was indicating the precise location of the phone. I frowned, double checking the location at least four times. "It's here. It's in two two one Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened up. "How can it be here? How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade said, unsure.

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me? I didn't notice?" Sherlock was getting frazzled by then.

"Anyway, we texted him and he responded," I told Lestrade. "He has the phone."

Ignoring my words, Lestrade turned to his men. "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim..."

I frowned at the screen, unsure of how to piece it together. Sherlock was always telling me to look at the bigger picture. How was it that he could so an entire landmass when all I could see was a small village. His mind worked in a way unknown to me and everyone else around him. He must have been a truly unique person to have been able to just know all of this stuff. Yet he always looks so pleasantly surprised and even proud whenever I told him something he already knew without having to be given hints. I noticed that Sherlock wasn't talking anymore and turned to look at him.

He stood in the middle of the flat, staring at the door. I couldn't see around him. "Sherlock, are you all right?" I asked.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine," he said vaguely.

"So, how can the phone be here?" I asked, hoping he would tell me and stop looking so spacey. It was strange and disconcerting on his face somehow.

"Dunno," Sherlock said quietly.

I stood up to fish my phone out of my jean pocket. "I'll try it again."

"Good idea," Sherlock said softly, walking towards the door."

"Where are you going?" I asked, concerned as I looked through my recent dials, looking up at him occasionally.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." He spoke in a far away voice. Even his walking seemed otherwise occupied.

I frowned after him. "Are you sure you're all right, Sherlock?"

Already halfway down the stairs, I barely heard him respond. "I'm fine."


	5. Capes and Shock Blankets

_Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival._

_ -C. S. Lewis_

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><p>After about five minutes, I stood up and looked out the window, phone pressed to my ear as I waited to see if the killer would pick up. I saw Sherlock standing still before an open taxi, just standing there. I felt an odd feeling in my stomach as I watched him slowly climb in and softly shut the door. As the taxi pulled away, I turned to the others in the room. "He's just gotten into a cab... Sherlock just left."<p>

"I told you, he does that," Sergeant Donovan said snidely. She turned to Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She walked back into the kitchen, talking loudly. "We're wasting our time!"

"I'm calling the phone," I said to Lestrade, trying to keep him calm. "It's ringing out."

"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade said.

I lowered the phone and reached for the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

Sergeant Donovan marched back into the room to speak with Lestrade. "Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time."

I bristled. Who was she to call Sherlock a lunatic? Of course he had rather odd tendencies. Of course he could be really rude sometimes. But from what I'd seen and heard, Sherlock solved a lot of cases for the police force in London. He solved them and never asked for any of the credit. Sherlock was probably the one person in the world that I trust to _never_ let me down. He didn't have it in him to disappoint anyone.

Lestrade stared at her for a long moment and she held his gaze evenly. Finally, Lestrade sighed. "Okay, everybody. Done 'ere." The officers began to replace objects in their hands back to their original places.

As the other officers left, Donovan having marched out first, Lestrade turned to me. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" He slowly pulled on his coat.

I shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." His words almost sounded flippant, but I sensed an underlying note of sadness as he said those words.

"So why do you put up with him?" I asked curiously.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade said, completely unafraid to admit it. He walked to the door, ready to leave. He turned back suddenly, deciding he had to say something. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

He turned and left with that.

* * *

><p>Later, after deciding to just go back to my own flat when the phone kept ringing out, I walked around the living room, collecting items I'd left scattered about. My house keys, my cellphone, and my cane. As I picked up the cane and headed for the door, the computer beeped in a triumphant way and a map appeared on the screen and started to zoom in on the location of the phone. I turned back as the computer beeped repeatedly. Going back to the table and propping my cane against it, I picked up the tiny laptop and looked at the screen. I looked on the map at the little moving blip and felt my heart stutter.<p>

Snapping the laptop shut, I ran from the apartment. I quickly hail a taxi and climbed inside, spouting out directions to follow as I trained my eyes on the moving blip on the screen. After following the dot for several minutes, it occurred to me to contact Lestrade. Wincing at my own stupidity, I pulled my phone out and attempted to call his office.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade," I said to the woman I was speaking with. "I need to speak to him. It's important." When she said that he was currently busy, I felt my temper flare. "It's an emergency!" I shouted at the woman, who suddenly began to stutter in annoyance. My cabbie glanced back at me nervously.

Ignoring the woman's rambling, I looked at the screen, which had loaded again and showed the newest location of the phone. "Er, left here, please," I said to the cabbie hurriedly. "Left here."

Of course he would be an idiot and go off on his own. Of course he wouldn't tell me anything. Why had he gone, though? He was alone in a taxi with a man who'd already murdered four other people. Why had he just left with him so willingly? I hardly had time to think about it. The cabbie let me out once the blip stayed in one location.

On the sidewalk where I stood, I saw the abandoned taxi. Inside on the seat was the pink phone, lit up with several missed calls, all from me. There were two nearly identical buildings in front of me. How was I supposed to know which one they'd gone to? I felt sick as I tried to decide which building to enter. What if Sherlock died because I went to the wrong building, or if I didn't reach him in time? What if he was already dead?

I stopped myself suddenly and picked my building, quickly leaping up the steps and through the doors. I ran along every corridor on every floor, shouting Sherlock's name as I went. "Sherlock?" I called, peering into empty classrooms on my way around. "Sherlock! Answer me!" When he didn't respond and my voice alone echoed down the empty halls, I felt my nerves become even more frayed. I was hot, way too hot, from running, my breathing harsh and heavy, my steps matching my panting breaths. I knew what was happening, of course. Adrenaline was pulsing in my veins, propelling me on to my goal. Find Sherlock, save Sherlock.

I burst through an unlocked door and stared ahead of myself as I finally saw him. He stood holding a bottle with a pill in it, facing away me. The killer stood opposite him, pill in hand. He didn't see me. How could he have? Opposite me, across the classroom, through a window, over an alley, in another building, he stood, staring down a murderer.

I'd chosen the wrong building.

My eyes filled with horror. "SHERLOCK!" I screamed, hearing my voice bounce off the walls around me and fill my empty classroom as I stared across to his. He suddenly took the pill out of his bottle and raised it to the light above him. I surged to the window, beating my hands against the glass. "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop, please!" He couldn't hear me. He didn't see me. I couldn't reach him in time.

Knowing what I had to do, I took a deep breath and pulled my pistol out, shoving the window open and quickly taking aim. As I watched the killer raise his hand with Sherlock's, I took a practiced stance, a known and familiar feeling of calm washing over me as I stared at the killer. I knew what to do. My body remembered the weight of my gun, the familiar nicks and scratches ghosting over my fingers. Keeping my eyes locked on his chest, I waited until I saw Sherlock's arm begin to descend. I pulled the trigger, watching almost numbly, blankly, as the bullet shattered through the opposite window, through the old man's back, and then punctured the door on the far side of the classroom.

I felt some form of pent up tension in my chest rapidly release as I watched Sherlock jump back in shock, safe. I let loose the breath I hadn't known I was holding, dizzy either from not breathing or relief. I couldn't tell. I saw Sherlock begin to turn and I dropped to the floor, crawling out of the room so he wouldn't see me. I sprinted down the stairs and turned into the alley, bracing myself against my knees, calming myself down as I waited for Lestrade and the police to arrive. When I was no longer out of breath, I stood out on the sidewalk. I could hear the sirens approaching from a distance. The cool evening air brushed against my damp hairline, soothing me as I closed my eyes, breathing it in. Everything was so calm. So still. It seemed almost surreal that I'd just shot a man. Yes, I'd done it before. It wasn't the first time I'd done it. But it was the first time I'd shot a civilian. Sure, he was a murderer. He could have killed Sherlock and just gotten away with it. He was a bad man who needed to be stopped. I looked over at the building I'd shot into, worried. Sherlock hadn't come out yet. Had the old man died? He must have. I'd seen him fall to the floor. What if he was still alive, though? What if Sherlock wasn't alright? I felt my feet move out from under me as I ran. Just as I got to the steps of Sherlock's building, he came walking out.

Yes, I knew that he was okay, seeing him standing under the old, yellow light in the doorway. Still, seeing him walk out, unscathed, was like some sort of miracle. Without thinking, I rushed up to the stairs of the college and grabbed the front of his coat, looking him over rapidly. "Are you all right? Sherlock, are you hurt?"

Sherlock looked shocked for a moment. "Yes, Anna, I'm fine." When I didn't calm down, Sherlock placed a hand on top of my head and I took in a deep breath to calm myself down. I looked up at him and he smiled a bit. "Glad you figured it out, then?" I couldn't even be angry that he was still patting me like a dog. A weary chuckle passed through my lips and I released his coat, my hands framing my face as I looked up at the sky, shocked that I could laugh in such a situation.

I parted from him as paramedics and police came towards us, demanding to know what had happened. As they took Sherlock off to be questioned, I slowly moved around the police cars, staying close enough to the ambulance they sat Sherlock in to hear them speaking. I began to worry slightly over the shot I took. Would they be able to know it was me? They could easily find the kind of gun the bullet came from. But I wasn't registered as having a gun. Would they even look into me? What if they arrested me for murder? Would I even be charged, since I was saving Sherlock's life? No, I told myself. Stop that. Thinking about it will make you look guilty. Think about something else. Puppies. Rainbows. Toffee. High school. Ugh, no, think of something else...

I almost missed Sherlock describing the general characteristics of the killer to Lestrade. However, when I heard him begin to talk about it, my head immediately swung to look at him. Standing there in that ridiculous orange shock blanket, he began to describe me. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot you're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. Their hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly they're acclimatized to violence. They didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so a strong moral principle." I could feel my heart beating against my ribcage as I looked at Sherlock. He was going to describe me without even realizing it. "You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel." Suddenly, Sherlock turned and looked at me. For whatever reason, at that moment, he looked at me.

A kind of understanding passed between us then. He stared at my calm stance, wide eyes, and innocent face as understanding dawned on him and I looked away, towards the police officers on crowd control. I could still hear him speak. "Actually, do you know what? Ignore me," Sherlock suddenly said.

I glanced over curiously. "Sorry?" Lestrade said, caught off guard.

"Ignore all of that," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. "It's just the, uh... the shock talking."

Watching Sherlock walk off, Lestrade called after him, "Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the man," Sherlock said, trying to evade Lestrade as he came closer to me.

"I've still got questions for you," Lestrade said in an annoyed voice.

"Oh, what now?" Sherlock asked, sounding severely irritated. "I'm in shock – look, I've got a blanket." He picked up an edge of said blanket draped over his shoulders and waved it at the Detective Inspector, as though that would prove the horrific shock he obviously _was _going through that rendered him unable to answer further questions.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said sternly, crossing his arms.

"And I just caught you a serial killer," Sherlock cut in, suddenly pausing and reassessing his words. "More or less."

Lestrade didn't look like he believed Sherlock at all. I waited as Lestrade stared at Sherlock. "Okay," he finally said, looking at Sherlock suspiciously. "We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." Nodding slightly, Sherlock left.

I watched him walk towards me, the bright orange shock blanket flowing off his shoulders like a cape that should've belonged to a hero. Somehow, though, on Sherlock, it only made him look like more of an anti-hero to me. That seemed odd.

Walking with me, I didn't even mention our silent eye-to-eye conversation we'd had moments before. "Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything," I said conversationally. "Two pills... Dreadful, isn't it? Dreadful..."

Sherlock wasn't fooled at all. Staring at me, he said quietly, "Good shot."

My heartbeat skipped. I licked my lips and nodded, my face the embodiment of innocence. "Yes. Yeah, it must have been, through that window and all..."

"Well, you'd know," Sherlock said, his gaze never wavering from mine. I looked up at him sharply, still trying to look innocent. Sherlock smoothly took the blanket from around his shoulders and draped it over mine. I swallowed and glanced away, bringing a hand up to hold the blanket at my throat. "Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers?" Sherlock asked. I nodded quickly. "Good. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

I looked around to see if anyone was watching us. The last thing I needed was someone hearing Sherlock say that... I didn't notice he was watching me until he spoke. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you have just killed a man," Sherlock said, glancing at the shock blanket now on my shoulders. I smiled a little when I realized why he'd given it to me.

"Yes," I agreed, looking up at him with a smile. "That's true." Sherlock continued to look at me carefully. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Suddenly reassured that I was okay, Sherlock nodded in agreement. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," I said humorously.

Sherlock chuckled, then turned and started to lead us away as he spoke.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

That set off a fountain of giggles to come pouring from my lips as Sherlock chuckled beside me. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me," Sherlock said easily as we walked past Sergeant Donovan. She stopped and gawked at the two of us, alarm registering on her features.

"Keep your voice down!" I said quietly to Sherlock. I looked at Donovan. "Sorry – it's just, um, nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, turning slightly to acknowledge her.

As our laughter slowly died out, one thought that had been troubling me since I'd seen him through the window came back to the forefront of my mind. "You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" I stopped walking to look at him.

Sherlock turned to look back at me. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." I didn't believe him for a moment.

"No you didn't," I disagreed, shaking my head. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked, a challenge in his voice.

"Because you're an idiot," I said, smirking up at him.

Sherlock smiled back at me with delight. Eventually, he forced the smile down, the amusement remaining evident on his face in the slight crinkles around his eyes. "Dinner?"

"Starving," I agreed. I knew he didn't mean it as a date. He knew that I knew that. That in itself was what made the whole thing so oddly comfortable and relaxed.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese place that stays open 'til two. You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by examining the bottom third of the door handle," Sherlock said, hands in his pockets as we started to walk away. I noticed a car park ahead of us and a man get out almost regally.

"Sherlock," I said quickly, urgently, using the hand not holding my blanket to tug at the coat on his elbow. He looked to where I was pointing. "That's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

"I know exactly who that is," Sherlock said almost warily.

Sherlock walked closer to the man and stopped, looking at him angrily. I glanced round to see where the police were in case we would need them. The man spoke pleasantly to Sherlock.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

Ignoring his comment, Sherlock said, "What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you," said the man simply.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'," Sherlock said, glancing at me. I looked back at him before redirecting my gaze to the mysterious man. "I didn't realize kidnapping random people was how people show concern."

"Oh, but she's not a random person, is she, Sherlock?" the man asked with a smile. When neither Sherlock or I answered, only getting a sharp glare from the taller man beside me, the man sighed. "Always so aggressive... Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock said obviously.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ..." I began to grow worried. How did Sherlock know the man? Whatever was happening between them sounded very serious." ...and you know how it always upset Mummy."

I blinked and frowned. _'Mummy?'_

"I upset her?" Sherlock questioned softly. "Me?" the man glowered at Sherlock. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait," I said, interrupting them. The two men paused. The man, Mycroft, looked at me. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother – our mother." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the man. "This is my brother, Mycroft."

I gaped in amazement, staring between the two of them. While there was definitely differences between them, I suddenly noticed that air of importance that both of them wore around themselves, as well as the snide sense of pride.

"Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked, as though what he'd said hadn't been a shock.

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft said evenly.

"He's your brother?!" I exclaimed, looking up at Sherlock in shock.

"Of course he's my brother," Sherlock said.

I remained silent for a few moments as I tried to wrap my head around that. "So he's not..."

"Not what?" Sherlock asked, turning to me when I left a question unanswered.

Mycroft looked at me as I went on, a red blush staining my cheeks. "I dunno – criminal mastermind?" I grimaced, feeling bad for even suggesting it.

"Close enough," Sherlock said disparagingly.

"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis," Sherlock commented dryly. Mycroft sighed. "Good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock's brother looked up, maybe hopefully, but Sherlock quickly squashed that. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

He walked away. I started to follow him but then turned back to Mycroft, who had turned to watch his brother. "So, when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft said easily.

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?" I asked, trying to decide if the two were playing a joke on me.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

I giggled. "Yeah ... no. God, no!" I laughed, then, imagining Sherlock and Mycroft squabbling like children. I half-turned to follow Sherlock, who had assumed I'd follow after him and was not waiting for me on the sidewalk. "I-I'd better, um ..."

"Good night, Ms. Watson," Mycroft called after me kindly. I turned a little and shot him a quick smile and wave.

When I caught up to Sherlock, I looked up at him. "So; dim sum."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" I asked, confused by the sudden change in topic.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh, yeah," I said lightly. "Shoulder."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No, you didn't."

He glanced at me and smirked. "The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess.

"Yes, you do." I looked up at him to find him smiling. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?" I asked curiously, walking quickly to keep up with his long strides.

"I've absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied darkly.


	6. Mints and Plum Lipstick

_It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not._  
><em> - André Gide<em>

* * *

><p>I slid my items across the scanner before depositing them into the plastic bags provided by the self check-outs. As I slid a head of lettuce across the scanner, the automated female voice spoke from the machine. "Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again." I frowned but lifted the last item I'd put in before dropping it into the bag again. Thankfully, it went through that time. I held a lettuce in a plastic bag and moved it slowly across the scanner in an attempt to get it to read the barcode. "Item not scanned. Please try again."<p>

I straightened up and stared at the computer screen. Why did they talk so loudly? Why couldn't they just talk quietly, or give a little beep. When the machine repeated its words once again, I grumbled, "D'you think you could keep your voice down?"

Finally, after a bit of frustration, I managed to get all of the items scanned and into the bags. I smiled nervously at the people behind me, who gave annoyed smiles, attempting to be sympathetic.

I inserted my credit card into the chip-and-PIN machine. I typed in my PIN and waited.

"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment."

Feeling my eye start to twitch, I began to mumble, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up..."

"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment."

The woman directly behind me had already picked up her basket, thinking I'd be done soon. Seeing I was having issues, she huffed and left the line, leaving me and a tall man with brown hair in line. I reached into my purse to look for my wallet and realized I'd left it at the flat. I winced and looked at the man behind me. "I haven't got anything... Sorry."

He smiled at me. "It's no problem, miss." He seemed patient enough so I started rooting through my purse for any other form of money. Seeing I was having an issue, the man suddenly stepped forward and swiped his card, quickly punching in his number before I could stop him. As the machine accepted the payment, he smiled at me. "Need any help with your bags?" He held up an iTunes card. "I only needed this."

I realized how cute he was suddenly. His eyes were brown and gorgeous, framed by long lashes. I found his glasses extremely attractive as well. His brown hair was wavy and was gelled into short curls. He was wearing a casual black shirt and a grey wool shirt with a pair of jeans, a belt, and boots. I realized I was staring and flushed, stuttering out a response. "O-Oh, no, I can..." I realized I had three bags and would have a hard time carrying them. The man smiled knowingly as he purchased his card.

"I'll take these," he said, picking up the two heavier bags and leaving me with the bag of bread.

"Thank you so much," I said as we left the shop. "I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem," He said with a smile. He seemed to have an accent.

"I'm Anna," I replied. "Sorry, are you from England?"

He smiled. "No, I'm French. Do you live near here?"

"Yeah, on Baker Street," I said, pointing farther down the road we were walking on. "I just needed some groceries so I walked."

"Most people don't walk anywhere here," he said wistfully. "You take taxis everywhere."

"It's a big city," I said with a shrug. "It seems easier that way. But it's fairly nice out today. It hasn't rained yet."

The man sighed. "It rains here so often!"

"I guess it's a bit different from France," I agreed. "You get used to it after a bit."

The man smiled at me. "I'll take your word for it." I blushed and cleared my throat, looking away. I then blinked, realizing my mistake.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said hurriedly. "I-I forgot to ask your name! Wow, that was rude..."

The man laughed kindly before saying, "It is all right. My name is Nicolas Blake."

"Nice to meet you," I said with a grin.

"I would greet you as we do in France, but I am afraid that it is not the usual greeting here," Nicolas said humorously.

I grinned. "No, I don't suppose so. It would definitely shock some people."

We walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Nicolas spoke again. "What do you do? As in a job?"

"I'm..." I paused, trying to decide what to say. "I'm out of a job right now, actually." Seeing him nod awkwardly, I rushed to explain. "I-I mean, I was a soldier in Afghanistan. I got shot and I haven't found a job yet. But I'm a nurse. Registered Nurse."

Nicolas nodded. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-four," I said. I then blinked. "Wow. I'm getting old."

Nicolas laughed kindly and I smiled. "Not very old yet, I think. If you are, then I most certainly am since I am twenty-eight. And now you are how old?"

"Oh, still twenty-four. It happened earlier this year." I glanced up at him. He wasn't too much taller than me. Maybe just under six feet. "What about you?"

"I'm here as a substitute. I work as a history teacher at Woodside High School. It's about twenty minutes or so from this area."

"Do you come to this area often?" I asked, trying to be casual. Nicolas must have caught on because he smiled knowingly.

"Yes, actually," he said. "I'm to take an exam soon that will let me become a teacher. If I pass, I've been offered a job at the school I work at now."

"That's exciting," I said, blinking. "What kind of history do you teacher?"

"If I had my choice, I would like to teach world history."

"I always loved history in high school," I said honestly. "It was always very interesting for me. I liked studying conflicts in countries and the wars that broke out."

Nicolas shifted the bags he carried. Just as he was about to speak, I realized I was in front of my flat. "Oh, this is me," I said, nodding at my door.

"I will take these upstairs, then," Nicolas said with a charming smile. I returned his smile and was about to unlock the door when I winced and turned quickly.

"I just want to warn you about my flatmate," I said nervously. "He can be a bit... eccentric."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "He?"

I laughed nervously. "Er, yes. But we're not together. God, no, we're not together. I don't think he's even capable of being with anyone. He's just not really the best at social interactions, and I've always thought that..." When I realized Nicolas was smiling sympathetically, I stopped talking. "Sorry. Sorry, I was rambling, um... yeah, maybe you can meet him some other time. He's not the best with strangers."

Nicolas smiled. "Then I will give these to you and open the door at the very least." I smiled, quite happy with the impressive display of manners

After he'd passed me the sacks of groceries, he reached around and opened the door for me. As his shoulder brushed past mine, I caught a spicy smelling cologne and smiled a little wider. I looked up to see Mrs. Hudson leaving her rooms, heading towards the stairs. "Oh!" She said, suddenly stopping when she saw Nicolas and I. "Hello, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, tottering over to us. "Who might this be?"

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Nicolas Blake," I said, indicating the tall man beside me. "He helped me carry my groceries back."

Nicolas smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hudson." Nicolas grasped Mrs. Hudson's fingers in an odd, charming handshake.

"Oh, what a gentleman," Mrs. Hudson said, looking at me with approval. "I was just running upstairs to check on Sherlock."

"He's still in his chair, Mrs. Hudson, we both know he is," I said, rolling my eyes as Mrs. Hudson moved towards the stairs.

"I'll just pop up and say hello, then," Mrs. Hudson said, turning around halfway up. "It was very nice to meet you as well, Mr. Blake." With that, she entered the living room, door already wide open as it always was.

I turned and smiled at Blake a little shyly. "Right, well, thanks for the help today. I'll pay you back. Sometime."

"Don't worry about it," Nicolas assured me. "It's no trouble." He stepped out onto the stairs of the flat, and just as I was shutting the door, he turned back to me. "Can I see you again?"

I felt butterflies erupt in my stomach and grinned unabashedly. He smiled widely at my face as I nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'd like that."

"Perfect," Nicolas said, quickly pulling out his phone. We swapped numbers and he left, assuring me that I would hear from him soon.

I finally shut the door, feeling those childish feelings of infatuation start to begin. I giggled to myself. I wasn't a child anymore – I was an adult. I shouldn't be giggling because a boy asked for my phone number. Still, as I walked up the stairs and back into the flat, I couldn't deny that I had a bounce in my step that hadn't been present before.

As I was walking up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson passed me with an old tea tray. At my curious expression, she shook her head. "Yes, dear, still in his chair." I smiled to myself and continued on my way.

Entering the living room, I was almost comforted by the sight of Sherlock sitting in his chair, legs crossed and book open. It had become so familiar. Sherlock and I had been living together since the end of January, so it'd be almost three full months in a week or so. He was actually rather easy to get along with as far as flatmates go. We didn't argue over what to watch on TV, who would pay what bill, and never had too much to argue about in general. When I found my room reorganized and sorted through one day, I had simply chalked it up as one of Sherlock's experiments and left it at that, spending a few minutes making sure I knew where everything was.

He'd almost seemed surprised, curious, even, when I didn't question him. A few hours later, as we both sat in our chairs with books, he'd broken the quiet and asked, "You're not upset with me?"

I took a moment to mark my place in my book before looking up. "Because of my bedroom, you mean?" Sherlock nodded. "Not really. I don't have anything you need so I know you didn't take anything. I just figured you felt like doing it. I have to admit, it's much neater. I won't have as many problems finding things now."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking back down at his book, ending that conversation. I smiled to myself and lowered my eyes back to my book. Another good thing about Sherlock was that sometimes he would get so involved in his own thoughts he could go for hours without noticing what I was doing. Made reorganizing _his _room so much easier. For a man to go and clean my room, his was an absolute mess.

A few days later, when he finally noticed, he confronted me about it, walking into the kitchen where I was boiling water for dinner. "You cleaned my room."

I glanced up at him before looking at my recipe again. "You cleaned mine first."

There was silence between us for several minutes, him simply standing there looking at me while I went about making dinner. Finally, he said, "Thank you." And that's how we got into the habit of cleaning each other's room.

Sherlock didn't even look up when I entered. "You took your time," he said, eyes scanning over the pages.

"Almost didn't get the shopping," I said airily, moving into the kitchen to set the groceries down on the table. I frowned, looking down at surface of the table. A long scratch was in the wood, several inches long, marred the top of the polished wood. Mrs. Hudson would _not_ like that. She'd probably talk our ears off for a few minutes before sighing and asking if we wanted any tea. She was sweet that way.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock asked, interested suddenly as he raised his gaze from his book.

"Because I had a row in the shop with a chip and pin machine," I replied dryly, setting the groceries out on the table. I frowned, looking through them.

"You... You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock inquired curiously, surprised. Glancing over, I thought I saw his lips quirked ever so slightly in a smile.

"Well, sort of," I said quickly, looking through the boxes and cans on the table once more. "Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Damn it!" I rubbed my eyes and turned away from the table, groaning.

"What is it?"

"I forgot the cookies," I replied, muffled through my hands. "The no bake cookies."

"Did we need them badly?"

"No, _I _needed them badly," I sighed, dropping my hands. "I wanted those cookies."

"Then go back and get them," Sherlock said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. I suppose, given the amount of information he had, that would make sense.

"The chip and pin machine didn't take my card," I explained, flopping down in my chair irritably. "It was embarrassing enough the first time, thanks."

"How did you get the groceries, then?"

"A man behind me in line bought them for me."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking down at his book again. "That must have been Nicolas, I take it?"

I turned to look at him sharply. "How'd you know his name was Nicolas?"

Sherlock's only response was a smile, eyes following the words in his book. I groaned, rolling my head back on my chair. "Sherlock, seriously, this is getting freaky. I mean, it's still impressive, I just never even brought him up here or mentioned him and - " I cut off suddenly, lifting my head up to look at him closely. He innocently turned the page of his book. I narrowed my eyes. "Mrs. Hudson told you." The corner of his mouth twitched and I laughed.

"Take my card," Sherlock said, looking up at me a hint of a smile on his lips, nodding his head towards the kitchen where his wallet sat amongst the other groceries. I grinned, quickly darting into the kitchen.

"You could come with me," I said, looking over my shoulder as I dug through his wallet. "You've just sat there all morning. I don't think you've even moved since I left." Sherlock's only response was a soft sigh as he turned another page in his book. "What about that case you were offered?" I asked. "The Jaria diamond?"

"Not interested," Sherlock replied easily, his book closing with a soft _thud!_ "I sent them a message."

"What about this, then?" I asked, inspecting the long cut in the surface of the table. I looked at Sherlock but he simply shrugged innocently, giving a slight shake of his head in response.

"I know how to get scratches out of wood," I said, moving towards the door. "I'll just pick up a few more things from the store so Mrs. Hudson doesn't strangle you. Sure you don't need anything?"

"Does the store sell eyes in a jar yet?"

"Not that I'm aware of, no."

"Then no, thank you."

"Right," I said, briskly jogging down the stairs. "Back in a bit!"

* * *

><p>I returned home later with a bag of no bake cookies, the things I'd need to get rid of the scratch on the table, as well as a small bottle of candy eyeball mints. Entering the flat, I was actually a little surprised to find Sherlock had moved. Sitting at the table next to his chair, his sat with his hands folded, pressed against his mouth, looking at the computer screen in front of him.<p>

Setting down the fresh bag of groceries, I took out the little bottle of eye mints and made my way over to him. Noticing the dark purple color of the computer, I sighed irritably. "Sherlock, is that my computer?"

"Of course it is," Sherlock replied, beginning to type.

"Why?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"And you couldn't go ten feet to get it?" I asked, peering over his shoulder to see what he was typing. "It's password protected."

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said quietly. I gave him a sour look. "Took my less than a minute to guess yours." He glanced at me then, eyes narrowed. "Snowdrops?"

I flushed and stood up straight. "What? They're pretty." Sherlock quickly raised his eyebrows before looking away. I stood over his shoulder, waiting until he'd sent the email he was writing before quickly reaching around and grabbing my computer, Sherlock's hands flying up defensively. "Trade you," I said, placing the bottle of eye mints on the table. Sherlock picked up the bottle curiously, inspecting the blue, green, and brown eyed mints as they rolled and sharply hit the glass with a _clink!_

"Cute," Sherlock said dryly, setting them down on the table, uninterested. I felt a little disappointed he hadn't liked them or found them amusing but, then again, I shouldn't have expected too much. Sherlock rarely paid attention to something for more than a few minutes unless it involved murder, mystery, or the always delightful combination of both.

I moved to sit down in my chair, laying my computer on the floor beside me while I picked up the topmost bill on the growing stack at the table beside me. I winced when I read over the numbers, the large amounts of red ink almost causing me physical pain to look at. "I need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock mused disapprovingly.

"How would you suggest I get money, then?" I asked sarcastically. "If I'm not to get a job, then how else am I going to be able to help pay the bills?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he suddenly got to his feet, saying, "I need to go to the bank." Grabbing his coat off the rack behind the door, he quickly went down the stairs, not sparing a glance behind him. I scrambled out of my chair and snatched my discarded coat from the kitchen before following.

"The bank?" I asked, almost running to catch up with his long strides. "Why the bank?"

"Visiting an old schoolmate," Sherlock said, flagging down a cab.

"Really?" I asked, surprised. "I thought you said you didn't have any friends from school."

"I don't," Sherlock said. His face hard, stormy, I decided to drop the subject where it was. It was obviously something sore for him.

As we drove, the buildings and sounds of London flying past us, I began to wonder about Sherlock when he was younger. Did he have many friends? Or was as standoffish and off-putting as he was as an adult? Leaning back in the seat, glancing at Sherlock, I had a fairly good idea of what his life had been like as a child. Always smarter than the others, seeing more, _perceiving_ more. It would seem strange to any child. Was he bullied? Did kids make fun of him? Whoever the schoolmate who had been emailing him was, the face Sherlock was currently making made it painfully clear that he was not looking forward to the trip.

It only further reinforced my ideas about Sherlock. He craved The Game, as he called it, the thrill of the chase, the rush of the investigation, and the pleasure of solving the puzzle. So much, I think, that he'd be willing to assist a man who had possibly tormented him growing up. He _needed _the thrill. It was probably more addictive than drugs were to him.

When we arrived at a bank on Old Broad Street, a towering building of dark, reflective glass windows and gleaming chrome. A sign out front said 'Shad Sanderson Bank'. People in expensive suits and tailor-made clothes bustled in and out of a set of revolving doors. Sherlock wouldn't look at all out of place in the usual dark suit. I, on the other hand, was feeling extremely self conscious. I was wearing an old pair of jeans, trainers, and a jumper. My hair was in a messy ponytail, even! I sighed, fidgeting beside Sherlock as we neared the building, deciding that it would be better to just stop worrying. He obviously wasn't concerned about being seen with me.

"So when you said we were going to the bank," I said, trailing off when I realized Sherlock wasn't listening. Pursing my lips, I followed him onto the escalator that moved us upstairs. The entire interior was nothing but chrome, flashing screens, and black and white furniture. Reaching the top of the escalator, we moved towards a long white desk with multiple people sitting behind, stationed behind a computer and a phone.

Sherlock strode purposefully towards the desk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice almost grim. I glanced at him, growing more concerned by the minute.

We were directed into an office and told to wait. Two chairs sat on one side of the desk, but neither Sherlock or I moved to sit down. The office was very modern with few personal touches or color of any kind aside from different shades of white, grey, and black. A picture of a man and woman on their wedding day stood on the desk, but other than that, there wasn't anything personal. Sherlock wasn't in much of a mood for talking, as he had neglected to answer my question as to who we were meeting with.

"Sherlock Holmes!" I turned to see a man with dark hair entering the office, the same man from the wedding picture.

"Sebastian," Sherlock replied stiffly. He reached his hand out slowly. The man named Sebastian shook his hand energetically, a wide grin on his face.

"How are you, buddy?" Sebastian asked warmly. "How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock made hardly any attempt to disguise the disdain he held for Sebastian as his cold eyes regarded him, even as Sebastian turned to face me curiously.

"This is my **friend**, Anna Watson," Sherlock said, placing heavy emphasis on my title.

"Friend?" Sebastian asked curiously, glancing over at Sherlock.

"Colleague," I corrected, almost instantaneously. However kind it was of Sherlock to introduce me as a friend, I knew where I was and what I looked like. I was in a very successful, expensive bank, talking to a man whose haircut probably cost more than one of my kidneys. Dressed in old clothes and trainers, a 'friend' could easily be asked to leave the room, especially a friend of my standing. I didn't look as darkly handsome or intriguing as Sherlock did. People like Sebastian would disregard me immediately based on my appearance. By calling myself colleague, however, I was integral to what was about to be said between Sherlock and Sebastian. I could stay and I could help Sherlock. More importantly, I could stay and protect Sherlock from whatever memories the sight of Sebastian would bring up in him. The moment Sebastian walked in, Sherlock's entire body has stiffened ever so slightly.

"Right," Sebastian said, shaking my hand and smirking viciously as he looked at Sherlock in an almost smug way. I frowned at that, glancing up at Sherlock. The look on his face surprised me. He was usually devoid of emotion, yes, but the look of stony impassiveness he plastered onto his face made me pause. Had I hurt his feelings? That in itself was shocking to say the least. I pursed my lips, sensing the awkwardness in the air, wondering if I should explain later to Sherlock why I had corrected him.

"Grab a pew," Sebastian said, moving around to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" I shook my head, noticing that Sherlock refrained from answering altogether. "No? We're all sorted here, thanks," Sebastian said, waving his secretary away.

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Sebastian conceded, lacing his fingers together and glancing at one of the two computer monitors on his desk.

"Flying all the way around the world, twice in a month?" Sherlock asked, looking at Sebastian critically. Frowning, I glanced over at Sherlock. Twice in a month?

Sebastian laughed, unphased by Sherlock's deductions. "Right! You're doing that thing." Seeing my curious face, Sebastian directed his words at me. "We were at uni together and this guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock defended quietly.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian chuckled.

"Yes, I've seen him do it," I said admirably, smiling at little.

Sebastian paused for a moment before he smirked. "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him." I felt my eyes widen at the very crass and rude words he so effortlessly spoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a momentary flash of raw pain cloud Sherlock's face as he turned away, his eyes falling to the floor. Sebastian continued, unperturbed, "You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

I clenched my jaw, biting in my cheek to refrain from speaking. The word 'freak' bit at my brain, the nerves there almost screaming at me to lash out with some sarcastic remark. People such as Sebastian, ruthless, heartless, _cold_, displeased me to my very core.

"I simply observed," Sherlock said softly, all of his usual confidence and bravado vanishing. For the first time since I'd met him, Sherlock had no scathing reply to defend himself from an attacker.

Whenever Sergeant Donovan called Sherlock a freak or insult him in some other way, he either passed it off and didn't let it bother him outwardly or he had a comeback he would lash at her with, a comeback which was always almost ten times more offensive or rude than her own. Seeing Sherlock reduced to a hesitant, quiet person was more troubling than I could describe.

I couldn't hold it back. The look of sadness on Sherlock's face bit at the edges of my heart and I, being as strong-willed as I always had been, decided to take action since Sherlock wouldn't. I'd already seen it and I _had _to say it. "Oh, did you hurt yourself?" I asked innocently. Sebastian and Sherlock looked at me. I kept my eyes on Sebastian.

"Sorry?" He said, frowning slightly.

"That mark on your neck there, above your collar," I said, indicating the smear of dark plum. His fingers twitched, obviously wanting to cover it but knowing how that would look. "You know, it's funny, I could have sworn your _secretary _was wearing the exact shade of lipstick."

Sebastian chuckled slightly, clearing his throat. "Funny how bruises come up, yeah?"

The left side of my mouth curved up in satisfaction. "I didn't say it was a bruise."

Heavy silence filled the office, accompanied only by the noise of the computer monitors. Sebastian looked at me, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. I smiled pleasantly. I could feel Sherlock practically burning a hole in the side of my head. "Anyway, be sure to be more careful. I'm sure you'll want your wife to look at that when you get home."

Sebastian looked like he couldn't be sure what to make of me. Outrage turned his face red, but his lips were pressed together in a tight line, restricting the words that wanted to pour out of him. He took several deep breaths through his nose, his eyes not leaving mine for a moment. I leaned back in my chair, looking off to the side. I met Sherlock's eyes and he looked shocked and extremely curious. I smiled, shrugging.

"I don't really care for your tone, Ms. Watson," Sebastian said, jaw clenched. "I'd like you to leave now."

I pursed my lips but stood up. I expected that, really. Can't accuse a man of fooling around with his secretary without him getting a little upset.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Seb," Sherlock said, standing up beside me. When he saw my confused face turned up at him, he indicated the door. "After you, Anna."

"Wait, where are you going?" Sebastian asked, standing up. "It's just your colleague that needs to step out."

Sherlock looked around at him, face impassive. "I don't go anywhere without my blogger."

A smile broke out over my lips, smug but quite pleased. Sherlock seemed entirely indifferent as to whether or not he took the job. The fact he was willing to leave was a complete surprise to me.

Sebastian regarded the two of us with a calculating, critical gaze. "Colleagues, you said?"

Sherlock was silent, returning Sebastian's gaze apathetically. I replied, "Yes. Colleagues. As in ally, partner, assistant, companion."

"Right, of course," Sebastian sighed, almost tiredly. He looked at Sherlock. "You're as annoying now as you were then."

"Well, people never really change, do they, Seb?" Sherlock replied, the slightest amount of snark leaking into his voice.

"Come on then," Sebastian said wearily, walking past us towards the door. "I'm glad you could make it over in any case. We've had a break-in."

He led us across the trading floor towards a door on the other side of the room. "Sir William's office - the bank's former chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night."

"Did they steal anything?" I asked.

"No," Sebastian replied. "They just left a little message."

He held up a security card against a scanner by the door. With a beep and a clicking noise, the door unlocked and Sebastian pushed it open. The walls were a plain white color. A large portrait of a man I presumed to be Sir William hung behind the desk. On the far left wall, bright yellow graffiti was sprayed across the wall. Squinting at it, I could see that it looked vaguely like the number eight, only the top was left open, above it a slanted line. Over the picture of Sir William, a straight line was placed over his eyes. I felt uneasy looking at it, the crossed out eyes giving me an extremely unpleasant feeling, watching as the paint ran in trails down the painting.

Sebastian moved towards the desk and stepped aside to let Sherlock gain a clear view of the room. I stood beside Sherlock, ignoring Sebastian's gesture to stand on his other side. Crossing my arms defiantly, I swept my eyes across the room, taking in the scene. There was no way I was going to stand near someone so rude and disrespectful. Simply being in the same room as him was beginning to put me on edge.

Sherlock, noticing the tense atmosphere for once, glanced down at me as Sebastian sighed, walking away and looking annoyed.

"There's no need to be upset," he said quietly, eyes darting around the scene. "I'm fine, Anna."

I pursed my lips. "I know you're fine, Sherlock. You're not a child. I just don't take kindly to rude, disrespectful twits who feel the need to crush others under their foot to raise themselves higher."

"You're an idealist," Sherlock commented dryly.

"And you're a pragmatist," I replied, smiling ruefully. "What a pair we make."

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><p><strong>Hello! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter :) This episode is giving me issues. It's taking me awhile to get through it with all the schoolwork I have right now, but I write whenever I get the chance! Thanks to all those who have reviewed the last few chapters. If you liked the story, please go ahead and leave me a review telling me anything you like or even anything you didn't - I appreciate constructive criticism :) Oh, and if you have an account, please log in! I love getting reviews that I can respond to ^_^<strong>

**Anyway, thanks for the support and I'll see you guys with the next chapter!**


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